^P  JHarp  |>arttocU  CatI)crtooDU. 

THE   LADY  OF  FORT  ST. 'JOHN.      A  Novel. 

i6mo,  $1.25. 
OLD  KASKASKIA.     A  Novel.     i6mo,  $1.25. 
THE  CHASE  OF  ST.  CASTIN,  and  Other  Tales. 

i6mo,  ;?i.2S. 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 
Boston  and  New  York. 


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\ 


HE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN 
AND    OTHER    STORIES    OF 
THE  FRENCH  IN  THE 
NEW  WORLD 


/ 


BY 


MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 


srhrBtPfri^idfj^rfga 


■^wifiTr  """■—) 


BOSTON    AND   NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
^bc  Ritacrjjidc  pre??,  Cambriboe 
1894 


Copyright,  1894, 
By  MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S,  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


FAQB 

The  Chase  op  Saint-Castin         ....      1 
The  Beaupokt  Loup-Gakou      ....        50 

The  Mill  at  Petit  Cap 84 

Wolfe's  Cove 105 

The  Windigo 147 

The  Kidnaped  Bride 190 

PoNTiAc's  Lookout 225 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 

The  waiting  April  woods,  sensitive  in 
every  leafless  twig  to  spring,  stood  in  si- 
lenee  and  dim  nightfall  around  a  lodge. 
Wherever  a  human  dwelling  is  set  in  the 
wilderness,  it  becomes,  by  the  very  humility 
of  its  proportions,  a  prominent  and  aggres- 
sive point.  But  this  lodge  of  bark  and 
poles  was  the  color  of  the  woods,  and  nearly 
escaped  intruding  as  man's  work.  A  glow 
lighted  the  top,  revealing  the  faint  azure  of 
smoke  which  rose  straight  upward  in  the 
cool,  clear  air. 

Such  a  habitation  usually  resounded  at 
nightfall  with  Indian  noises,  especially  if 
the  day's  hunting  had  been  good.  The 
mossy  rocks  lying  around  were  not  more 
silent  than  the  inmates  of  this  lodge.  You 
could  hear  the  Penobscot   River   foaming 


2.  THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

along  its  unoiiHy  bed  half  a  milt;  eastward. 
The  poles  showed  freshly  cut  disks  of  yellow 
at  the  top ;  and  though  the  bark  coverings 
were  such  movables  as  any  Indian  household 
carried,  they  were  newly  fastened  to  their 
present  support.  This  was  plainly  the  night 
encampment  of  a  traveling  party,  and  two 
French  hunters  and  their  attendant  Abena- 
quis  recognized  that,  as  it  barred  their  trail 
to  the  river.  An  odor  of  roasted  meat 
was  wafted  out  like  an  invitation  to  them. 

"  Excellent,  Saint-Castin,"  pronounced 
the  older  Frenchman.  "  Here  is  another  of 
your  wilderness  surprises.  No  wonder  you 
prefer  an  enchanted  land  to  the  rough  moun- 
tains around  Beam.  I  shall  never  go  back 
to  France  myself." 

"  Stop,  La  Hontan !  "  The  young  man 
restrained  his  ^uost  from  plunging  into  the 
wigwam  with  a  headlong  gesture  recently 
learned  and  practiced  with  delight.  "  I 
never  saw  this  lodge  before." 

"  Did  you  not  have  it  set  up  here  for  the 
night  ?  " 


TTIE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.  3 

"  No  ;  it  is  not  mine.  Our  Abenaquia  are 
going  to  build  ono  for  us  nearor  the  river." 

"I  stay  here,"  observed  La  Ilontan. 
"  Supper  is  ready,  and  adventures  are  in 
the  air." 

"  But  this  is  not  a  hunter's  lodge.  You 
aee  that  our  very  dogs  understand  they  have 
no  business  here.     Come  on." 

"  Come  on,  without  seeing  who  is  hid 
herein?  No.  I  begin  to  think  it  is  some- 
tliing  thou  wouldst  conceal  from  me.  I  go 
in ;  and  if  it  be  a  bear  trap,  I  cheerfully 
porish." 

The  young  Frenchman  stood  resting  the 
end  of  his  gun  on  sodden  leaves.  lie  felt 
vexed  at  La  Hontan.  But  that  inquisitive 
nobleman  stooped  to  lift  the  tent  flap,  and 
the  young  man  turned  toward  his  waiting 
Indians  and  talked  a  moment  in  Abenaqui, 
when  they  went  on  in  the  direction  of  the 
river,  carrying  game  and  camp  luggage. 
They  thought,  as  he  did,  that  this  might  be 
a  lodge  with  which  no  man  ought  to  meddle. 
The  daughter  of  Madockawando,  the  chief. 


4  TIfK  CI  I  ASK  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

was  known  to  be  coming  from  her  winter 
retreat.  Every  Al)on}i(|ui  in  the  tribe  stood 
in  awe  of  the  maid.  She  did  not  nde  them 
as  a  wise  wonum,  but  lived  apart  from  them 
as  a  .superior  spirit. 

Baron  La  llontan,  on  all  fours,  intruded 
liis  gay  faee  on  tlu^  inmates  of  the  lodge. 
Tliere  were  three  of  them.  J  lis  palms  en- 
countered a  cari)et  of  hendock  twigs,  which 
spread  around  a  central  fire  to  the  circular 
wall,  and  was  madci  sweetly  odorous  by  the 
heat.  A  thick  couch  of  the  twigs  was  piled 
up  beyond  the  fire,  and  there  sat  an  Abenar 
qui  girl  in  her  winter  dress  of  furs.  She 
was  so  white-skinned  that  she  startled  La 
Hontan  as  an  apparition  of  Europe.  He 
got  but  one  black-eyed  glance.  She  drew 
her  blanket  over  her  head.  The  group  had 
doubtless  heard  the  conference  outside,  but 
ignored  it  with  reticent  gravity.  The  hun- 
ter of  the  lodge  was  on  his  heels  by  the  em- 
bers, toasting  coUops  of  meat  for  the  blan- 
keted princess;  and  an  Etchemin  woman, 
the  other  inmate,  took  one  from  his  hand. 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.  6 

and  pauHed,  vvliile  dressing  it  with  salt,  to 
Tfaze  at  the  Frenchman. 

La  Ilontan  liad  not  found  himself  distaste- 
ful to  northwestern  Indian  girls.  It  was 
tlie  fii'st  time  an  aboriginal  face  had  ever 
covered  itself  from  cxposui'o  to  his  eyes. 
He  felt  the  sudden  ri;spect  which  nuns  com- 
mand, even  in  those  who  scoff  at  their  visi- 
l)le  consecration.  The  usual  announcement 
made  on  entering  a  cabin  —  "I  come  to  see 
this  man,"  or  "  I  come  to  see  that  woman," 
—  he  saw  was  to  be  omitted  in  addressing 
this  strangely  civilized  Indian  girl. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Baron  La  Ilontan 
in  very  French  Abenaqui,  rising  to  one 
knee,  and  sweeping  the  twigs  with  the  brim 
of  his  hat  as  he  pulled  it  off,  "  the  Baron 
de  Saint-Castin  of  Pentegoet,  the  friend  of 
your  chief  Madockawando,  is  at  your  lodge 
door,  tired  and  chilled  from  a  long  hunt. 
Can  you  not  permit  him  to  warm  at  your 
fire  ?  " 

The  Abenaqui  girl  bowed  her  covered 
head.      Her  woman  companion  passed  the 


6 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 


permission  on,  and  the  hunter  made  it  au- 
dible by  a  grunt  of  assent.  La  Hontan 
backed  nimbly  out,  and  seized  the  waiting 
man  by  the  leg.  The  main  portion  of  the 
baron  was  in  the  darkening  April  woods, 
but  his  perpendicular  soles  stood  behind  the 
flap  within  the  lodge. 

"  Enter,  my  child,"  he  whispered  in  excite- 
ment. "  A  warm  fire,  hot  coUops,  a  black 
eye  to  be  coaxed  out  of  a  blanket,  and  full 
permission  given  to  enjoy  all.  What,  man  I 
Out  of  countenance  at  thought  of  facing  a 
pretty  squaw,  when  you  have  three  keeping 
house  with  you  at  the  fort  ?  " 

"  Come  out.  La  Hontan,"  whispered  back 
Saint-Castin,  on  his  part  grasping  the  elder's 
arm.     "  It  is  Madockawando's  daughter." 

"  The  red  nun  thou  hast  told  me  about  ? 
The  saints  be  praised !  But  art  thou 
sure  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  be  sure  ?  I  have  never  seen 
her  myself.  But  I  judge  from  her  avoiding 
your  impudent  eye.  She  does  not  like  to  be 
looked  at." 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.  7 

"It  was  my  mentioning  the  name  of  Saint- 
Castin  of  Pentegoet  that  made  her  whij)  her 
head  under  the  blanket.  I  see,  if  I  am  to 
keep  my  reputation  in  the  woods,  I  shall 
have  to  withdraw  from  your  company." 

"  Withdraw  your  heels  from  this  lodge," 
replied  Saint-Castin  impatiently.  "You 
will  embroil  me  with  the  tribe." 

"  Why  should  it  embroil  you  with  the 
tribe,"  argued  the  merry  sitter,  "  if  we  warm 
our  heels  decently  at  this  ready  fire  until 
the  Indians  light  our  own  ?  Any  Christian, 
white  or  red,  would  grant  us  that  privi- 
lege." 

"  If  I  enter  with  you,  will  you  come  out 
with  me  as  soon  as  I  make  you  a  sign  ?  " 

"  Doubt  it  not,"  said  La  Hontan,  and  he 
eclipsed  himself  directly. 

Though  Saint-Castin  had  been  more  than 
a  year  in  Acadia,  this  was  the  first  time  he 
had  ever  seen  Madockawando's  daughter. 
He  knew  it  was  that  elusive  being,  on  her 
way  from  her  winter  retreat  to  the  tribe's 
summer    fishing    station    near    the    coast. 


8  .        THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 

Father  Petit,  the  priest  of  this  woodland 
parish,  spoke  of  her  as  one  who  might  in 
time  found  a  house  of  holy  women  amidst 
the  license  of  the  wilderness. 

Saint-Castin  wanted  to  ask  her  pardon 
for  entering;  but  he  sat  without  a  sound. 
Some  power  went  out  from  that  silent  shape 
far  stronger  than  the  hinted  beauty  of  girl- 
ish ankle  and  arm.  The  glow  of  brands 
lighted  the  lodge,  showing  the  bark  seams 
on  its  poles.  Pale  smoke  and  the  pulse  of 
heat  quivered  betwixt  him  and  a  presence 
which,  by  some  swift  contrast,  made  his  face 
burn  at  the  recollection  of  his  household  at 
Pentegoet.  He  had  seen  many  good  women  in 
his  life,  with  the  patronizing  tolerance  which 
men  bestow  on  unpiquant  things  that  are 
harmless  ;  and  he  did  not  understand  why 
her  hiding  should  stab  him  like  a  reproach. 
She  hid  from  all  common  eyes.  But  his 
were  not  common  eyes.  Saint-Castin  felt 
impatient  at  getting  no  recognition  from  a 
girl,  saint  though  she  might  be^  whose  tribe 
he  had  actually  adopted. 


THE  CIIA8E  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.  9 

The  bluut-faeefl  Etchemin  woman,  once  a 
prisoner  brought  from  northern  Acadia, 
now  the  companion  of  Madockawando's 
(hiughter,  knew  her  duty  to  the  strangers, 
and  gave  them  food  as  rapidly  as  the  hunter 
coukl  broil  it.  The  hunter  was  a  big-legged, 
small-headed  Abenaqui,  with  knees  over- 
topi^ing  his  tuft  of  hair  when  he  squatted  on 
his  heels.  He  looked  like  a  man  whose 
emaciated  tiiink  and  arms  had  been  taken 
possession  of  by  colossal  legs  and  feet.  This 
singular  deformity  made  him  the  best  hun- 
ter in  his  tribe.  He  tracked  game  with  a 
sweep  of  great  beams  as  tireless  as  the  tread 
of  a  modern  steamer.  The  little  sense  in 
his  head  was  woodcraft.  He  thought  of  no- 
thing but  taking  and  dressing  game. 

Saint-Castin  barely  tasted  the  offered 
meat ;  but  La  Hontan  enjoyed  it  unabashed, 
warming  himself  while  he  ate,  and  avoiding 
any  chance  of  a  hint  from  his  friend  that 
the  meal  should  be  cut  short. 

"  My  child,"  he  said  in  lame  Abenaqui  to 
the  Etchemin  woman,  while  his  sly  regard 


IQ        TUE  CUASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 

dwelt  on  the  blanket-robed  statue  opposite, 
"  T  wish  you  the  best  of  gifts,  a  good  hus- 
band." 

The  Etchemin  woman  heard  him  in  such 
silence  as  one  perhaps  brings  from  making  a 
long  religious  retreat,  and  forbore  to  explain 
that  she  already  had  the  best  of  gifts,  and 
was  the  wife  of  the  big-legged  hunter. 

"  I  myself  had  an  aunt  who  never  mar- 
rififl  "  warned  La  Hontan.  "She  was  an 
excellent  woman,  but  she  turned  like  fruit 
withered  in  the  ripening.  The  fantastic  airs 
of  her  girlhood  clung  to  her.  She  was  at  a 
disadvantage  among  the  married,  and  young 
people  passed  her  by  as  an  experiment  that 
had  failed.  So  she  was  driven  to  be  very 
religious ;  but  prayers  are  cold  comfort  for 
the  v/ant  of  a  bouncing  family." 

If  the  Etcjhemin  woman  had  absorbed 
from  her  mistress  a  habit  of  meditation 
which  shut  out  the  world,  Saint-Castin  had 
not.  He  gave  La  Hontan  the  sign  to  move 
before  him  out  of  the  lodge,  and  no  choice 
but  to  obey  it,  crowding  the  reluctant  and 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASriN.        11 

coiutortiiblo  man  into  undignified  attitudes. 
La  Ilontan  saw  that  he  had  taken  offense. 
There  was  no  accounting  for  the  humors  of 
those  disbanded  sokliers  of  the  Carignan- 
SaUeres,  though  Srint-Castin  was  usually  a 
gentle  fellow.  They  spread  out  their  sensi- 
tive military  honor  over  every  inch  of  their 
new  seigniories ;  and  if  you  chucked  the 
wrong  little  Indian  or  habitant's  naked  baby 
under  the  chin,  you  might  unconsciously  stir 
up  war  in  the  mind  of  your  host.  La  Ilon- 
tan was  glad  he  was  directly  leaving  Acadia. 
He  was  fond  of  Saint-Castin.  Few  people 
could  approach  that  young  man  without  feel- 
ing the  charm  which  made  the  Indians  adore 
him.  But  any  one  who  establishes  himself 
in  the  woods  loses  touch  with  the  light  man- 
ners of  civilization ;  his  very  vices  take  on 
an  air  of  brutal  candor. 

Next  evening,  however,  both  men  were 
merry  by  the  hall  fire  at  Pentegoet  over 
their  parting  cup.  La  Hontan  was  return- 
ing to  Quebec.  A  vessel  waited  the  tide  at 
the  Penobscot's  mouth,  a  bay  which  the  In- 
dians call  "bad  harbor." 


12        THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

The  long,  low,  and  irregular  building 
which  Siiint-Castin  had  constructed  as  his 
baronial  seat  was  as  snug  as  the  governor's 
castle  at  Quebec.  It  was  only  one  story 
high,  and  the  small  square  windows  were  set 
under  the  eaves,  so  outsiders  could  not  look 
in.  Saint-Castin's  enemies  said  he  built 
thus  to  hide  his  deeds  ;  but  Father  Petit 
himself  could  see  how  excellent  a  plan  it  was 
for  defense.  A  holding  already  claimed  by 
the  encroaching  English  needed  loojvholes, 
not  windows.  The  fort  surrounding  the 
house  was  also  well  adapted  to  its  situation. 
Twelve  cannon  guarded  the  bastions.  All 
the  necessary  buildings,  besides  a  chapel 
with  a  bell,  were  within  the  walls,  and  a 
deep  well  insured  a  supply  of  water.  A  gar- 
den and  fruit  orchard  were  laid  out  opposite 
the  fort,  and  encompassed  by  palisades. 

The  luxury  of  the  house  consisted  in  an 
abundant  use  of  crude,  unpolished  material. 
Though  built  grotesquely  of  stone  and  wood 
intermingled,  it  had  the  solid  dignity  of  that 
rugged  coast.      A   chimney  spacious   as  a 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.        13 

crater  let  smoko  and  white  ashes  upward, 
and  sections  of  trees  sniouhlercd  on  Saint- 
C-astin's   hearth.      An   Indian    girl,   ruddy 
from  high  living,  and  wearing  the  brightest 
stidfs  imported  from  France,  sat  on  the  floor 
at  the  hearth  corner.     This  was  the  usual 
night  sc^ne  at  Pentegoet.    Candle  and  fire- 
light shone  on  her,  on  oak  timbers,  and  set- 
tles made  of  unpeeled  balsam,  on  plate  and 
glasses  which  always  heaped  a   table  with 
ready  food  and  drink,  on  moose  horns  and 
gun  racks,  on  stores  of  books,  on  festoons  of 
wampum,  and  usually  on  a  dozen  figures  be- 
side Saint-Castin.     The  other  rooms  in  the 
house  were  mere  tributaries  to  this  baronial 
l)resence  chamber.     Madockawando  and  the 
dignitaries  of  the  Abenaqui  tribe  made  it 
their  council  hall,  the  white  sagamore  pre- 
siding.    They  were  superior  to  rude  western 
nations.    It  was  Saint-Castin's  plan  to  make 
a  strong  principality  here,  and  to  unite  his 
people  in  a  compact  state.     He  lavished  his 
inherited  money  upon  them.    Whatever  they 
wanted  from  Saint-Castin  they  got,  as  from 


14        THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

a  father.  On  their  part,  they  poured  the 
wealth  of  the  woods  upon  hiui.  Not  a 
beaver  skin  went  out  of  Acadia  except 
through  Lis  hands.  The  traders  of  New 
France  grumbled  at  his  profits  and  monop- 
oly, and  the  English  of  New  England 
claimed  his  seigniory.  He  stood  on  debat- 
able ground,  in  dangerous  times,  trying  to 
mould  an  independent  nation.  The  Abena- 
quis  did  not  know  that  a  king  of  France  had 
been  reared  on  Saint-Castin's  native  moun- 
tains, but  they  believed  that  a  human  divin- 
ity had. 

Their  permanent  settlement  was  about  the 
fort,  on  land  he  had  paid  for,  but  held  in 
common  with  them.  They  went  to  their 
winter's  hunting  or  their  summer's  fishing 
from  Pentegoet.  It  was  the  seat  of  power. 
Tlie  cannon  protected  fields  and  a  town  of 
lodges  which  Saint-Castin  meant  to  convert 
into  a  town  of  stone  and  hewed  wood  houses 
as  soon  as  the  aboriginal  nature  conformed 
itseK  to  such  stability.  Even  now  the  vil- 
lage had  left  home  and  gone  into  the  woods 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CAST1N.        15 

a<?ain.  Tlio  Abcnaqui  womoii  were  busy 
tliorc,  insei'ting  tubes  of  bark  in  i)ierced 
iTini)le-trees,  and  troughs  caught  the  flow  of 
ascending  sap.  Kettles  boiled  over  fires  in 
the  bald  spaces,  incense  of  the  forest's  very 
licart  rising  from  them  and  sweetening  the 
air.  All  day  Indian  children  raced  from  one 
motlier's  fire  to  another,  or  dipped  unforbid- 
den eu2)s  of  hands  into  the  brimming  troughs ; 
and  at  night  they  lay  down  among  the  dogs, 
with  their  heels  to  the  blaze,  watching  these 
lower  constellations  blink  through  the  woods 
until  their  eyes  swam  into  unconsciousness. 
It  was  good  weather  for  making  maple 
sugar.  In  the  mornings  hoar  frost  or  light 
snows  silvered  the  world,  disappearing  as 
soon  as  the  snn  touched  them,  when  the  bark 
of  every  tree  leaked  moisture.  This  was 
festive  labor  compared  with  planting  the 
fields,  and  drew  the  men,  also. 

The  morning  after  La  Plontan  sailed, 
Saint-Castin  went  out  and  skirted  this  wide- 
spread sugar  industry  like  a  spy.  The  year 
before,  he  had  moved  heartily  from  fire  to 


16.        THK  rUASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

fire,  liailod  and  ontei'taincd  l)y  (»vcry  red 
mminfju'turcr.  Tlio  uiircKt  of  s])rin<j^  wuh 
upon  liiin.  II<'  liad  bi<)u<;lit  many  conven- 
iences among  the  Abenacjuis,  and  tanglit 
them  some  civilized  arts.  They  were  liis 
adopted  i)eoide.  Bnt  lie  felt  a  sudden  He])a- 
rateness  from  tluun,  like  the  h)nelineHH  of 
his  early  boyhood. 

Saint-Castin  was  a  good  hunter.  He  had 
more  than  once  watched  a  slim  yonng  doc^ 
stand  gazing  cnriously  at  him,  and  had  not 
startled  it  by  a  breath.  Therefore  he  was 
able  to  become  a  stnmj)  behind  the  tree 
which  Madockawando's  danghter  songht 
with  her  sap  pail.  Usually  he  wore  buck- 
skins, in  the  free  and  easy  life  of  Pentegoet. 
But  he  had  put  on  his  Carignan-Salieres 
uniform,  filling  its  boyish  outlines  with  his 
full  man's  figure.  He  would  not  on  any 
account  have  had  La  Hontan  see  him  thus 
gathering  the  light  of  the  open  woods  on 
military  finery.  lie  felt  ashamed  of  return- 
ing to  it,  and  could  not  account  for  his  own 
impulses  ;  and  when  he  saw  Madockawando's 


THE  CHASK  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.        17 

(Ijuij'hter  walking  unconsciously  toward  him 
as  toward  a  trap,  lie  drow  his  l)ri<;ht  surfaces 
entirely  bcliind  tho  colunui  of  the  trco. 

She  had  taken  no  part  in  tliis  festival  of 
labor  for  several  years.  She  moved  among 
the  women  still  in  solitude,  not  one  of  them 
feeling  at  liberty  to  draw  near  her  except  as 
she  encouraged  them.  The  Abenaquis  were 
not  a  polygamous  tribe,  but  they  enjoyed  the 
freedom  of  the  woods.  Squaws  who  had 
made  several  experimental  marriages  since 
this  young  celibate  began  her  course  natu- 
rally felt  rebuked  by  her  standards,  and 
preferred  stirring  kettles  to  meeting  her.  It 
was  not  so  long  since  the  princess  had  been 
a  hoiden  among  them,  abounding  in  the  life 
which  rushes  to  extravagant  action.  Iltr 
juvenile  whoops  scared  the  birds.  She  rode 
astride  of  saplings,  and  played  pranks  on 
solemn  old  warriors  and  the  medicine-man. 
Her  body  grew  into  suppleness  and  beauty. 
As  for  her  spirit,  the  women  of  the  tribe 
knew  very  little  about  it.  They  saw  none  of 
her  struggles.    In  childhood  she  was  ashamed 


18.     rirrc  err  ask  of  sm.wt  castlv. 

of  tho  liner  nature  vvIiohc^  wants  found  no 
anHwcr  in  lior  world.  It  was  anfi^uisli  to 
look  into  tlio  facoH  of  lior  kiiidr<'d  and 
friends  as  into  the  faees  of  hounds  who  live, 
it  is  true,  hut  a  lower  life,  made  up  of  chas- 
ing and  eating.  She  wondeied  wliy  slie  was 
created  different  from  them.  A  loyalty  of 
race  constrained  her  sometimes  to  imitate 
them ;  Imt  it  was  imitaticm ;  slie  could  not 
1)0  a  savage.  Then  Fatlier  Petit  came,  jn-e- 
ceding  Saint-Castin,  and  set  up  his  altar  and 
built  his  chapel.  The  Ahenaqui  girl  was 
converted  as  soon  as  she  looked  in  at  the 
door  and  saw  the  gracious  image  of  Mary 
lifted  up  to  be  her  pattern  of  wonuuihood. 
Those  silent  and  terrible  days,  when  she 
lost  interest  in  the  bustle  of  living,  and  felt 
an  awful  homesickness  for  some  unknown 
good,  passed  entirely  away.  Religion  opened 
an  invisible  world.  She  sprang  toward  it, 
lying  on  the  wings  of  her  spirit  and  gazing 
forever  above.  The  minutest  observances 
of  the  Church  were  learned  with  an  exact- 
ness which  delighted  a  priest  who  had  not 


77//';  (I  I  ASK  OF  SAiyT-CASTIX.         10 

too  many  on(Mmraj»'(Miu»iits.  Finally,  slio 
Ih'ITUCmI  lu'i'  father  to  let  licr  iiuiko  a  winter 
roti'oat  to  Honio  i)la('(^  near  the  headwaters 
of  the  Penobscot.  Wncn  the  hunters  were 
ahroad,  it  did  them  no  harm  to  remember 
tiiero  was  a  maid  in  a  wilderness  eloistc^r 
j)iayin«;'  for  the  good  of  her  people ;  and 
when  they  were  fortunate,  they  believed  in 
the  material  advantage  of  her  ju'ayers.  No- 
l)0(ly  thought  of  searching  out  lier  hidden 
('I'll,  or  of  asking  the  big-legged  hunter  and 
his  wife  to  tell  its  mysteries.  The  dealer 
with  invisible  spirits  commanded  respect  in 
Indian  minds  before  the  priest  came. 

Madockawando's  daughter  was  of  a  lighter 
color  than  most  of  her  tribe,  and  finer  in  her 
l)roportions,  though  they  were  a  well-made 
people.  She  was  the  highest  expression  of 
unadulterated  Abenaqui  l)lood.  She  set  her 
sap  pail  down  by  the  trough,  and  Saint-Cas- 
tin  shifted  silently  to  watch  her  while  she 
(lipped  the  juice.  Her  eyelids  were  low- 
ered. She  had  well-marked  brows,  and  the 
high  cheek-bones  were  lost  in  a  general  ac- 


20.       TIIF  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

quiline  rosiness.  It  was  a  girl's  face,  modest 
and  sweet,  that  he  saw  ;  reflecting  the  soci- 
ety of  holier  beings  than  the  one  behind  the 
tree.  She  had  no  blemish  of  sunken  temples 
or  shrunk  features,  or  the  glaring  aspect  of  a 
devotee.  Saint-Castin  was  a  good  Catholic, 
but  he  did  not  like  fanatics.  It  was  as  if  the 
choicest  tree  in  the  forest  had  been  flung 
open,  and  a  perfect  woman  had  stepped  out, 
whom  no  other  man's  eye  had  seen.  Her 
throat  was  round,  and  at  the  base  of  it,  in 
the  little  hollow  where  women  love  to  nestle 
ornaments,  hung  the  cross  of  her  rosary, 
which  she  wore  twisted  about  her  neck. 
The  beads  were  large  and  white,  and  the 
cross  was  ivory.  Father  Petit  had  furnished 
them,  blessed  for  their  purpose,  to  his  incip- 
ient abbess,  but  Saint-Castin  noticed  how 
they  set  off  the  dark  rosiness  of  her  skin. 
The  collar  of  her  fur  dress  was  pushed  back, 
for  the  day  was  warm,  like  an  autimm  day 
when  there  is  no  wind.  A  luminous  smoke 
which  magnified  the  light  hung  between 
treetops  and  zenith.     The  nakedness  of  the 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.        21 

swelling  forest  let  heaven  come  strangely 
close  to  the  ground.  It  was  like  standing 
oil  a  mountain  plateau  in  a  gray  dazzle  of 

clouds. 

Madockawando's  daughter  dipped  her  jiail 
full  of  the  clear  water.  The  appreciative 
motion  of  her  eyelashes  and  the  i)lacid  lines 
of  her  face  told  how  she  enjoyed  the  limpid 
l)laything.  But  Saint-Castin  understood 
well  that  she  had  not  come  out  to  boil  sap 
entirely  for  the  love  of  it.  Father  Petit  be- 
lieved the  time  was  ripe  for  her  ministry  to 
the  Abenaqui  women.  He  had  intimated  to 
the  seignior  what  land  might  be  convenient 
for  the  location  of  a  convent.  The  commu- 
nity was  now  to  be  drawn  around  her.  Other 
girls  must  take  vows  when  she  did.  Some 
half-covered  children,  who  stalked  her  wher- 
ever she  went,  stood  like  terra-cotta  images 
at  a  distance  and  waited  for  her  next  move- 
ment. 

The  girl  had  just  finished  her  dipping 
when  she  looked  up  and  met  the  steady  gaze 
of  Saint-Castin.    He  was  in  an  anguish  of 


22     ■   THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

dread  that  she  would  run.  But  her  star- 
tled eyes  held  his  image  while  three  changes 
passed  over  hor,  —  terror  and  recognition 
and  disapproval.  lie  stepped  more  into 
view,  a  white-and-gold  apparition,  which 
scattered  the  Ahenaqui  children  to  their 
mothers'  camp-fires. 

"  I  am  Saint-Castin,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  I  have  many  times  seen  you,  saga- 


more." 


Her  voice,  shaken  a  little  by  her  heart, 
was  modulated  to  such  softness  that  the 
liquid  gutturals  gave  him  a  distinct  new 
pleasure. 

"  I  want  to  ask  your  pardon  for  my 
friend's  rudeness,  when  you  warmed  and 
fed  us  in  your  lodge." 

"  I  did  not  listen  to  him."  Her  fingers 
sought  the  cross  on  her  neck.  She  seemed 
to  threaten  a  prayer  which  might  stop  her 
ears  to  Saint-Castin. 

"  He  meant  no  discourtesy.  If  you  knew 
his  good  heart,  you  would  like  him." 

"  I  do  not  like  men."  She  made  a  calm 
statement  of  her  peculiar  tastes. 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.        23 

"  Why  ?  "  inquired  Saint-Castiii. 

Madockawando's  daughter  summoned  her 
reasons  from  distant  vistas  of  the  woods, 
with  meditative  dark  eyes.  Evidently  her 
dishke  of  men  had  no  element  of  fear  or  of 
sentimental  avoidance. 

"  I  cannot  like  them,"  she  apologized,  de- 
clining to  set  forth  her  reasons.  "  I  wish 
they  would  always  stay  away  from  me." 

"Your  father  and  the  priest  are  men." 

"  I  know  it,"  admitted  the  girl,  with  a  deep 
breath  like  commiseration.  "They  cannot 
help  it ;  and  our  Etchemin's  husband,  who 
keeps  the  lodge  supplied  with  meal,  he  can- 
not help  it,  either,  any  more  than  he  can  his 
deformity.  But  there  is  grace  for  men,"  she 
added.  "  They  may,  by  repenting  of  their 
sins  and  living  holy  lives,  finally  save  their 
souls." 

Saint-Castin  repented  of  his  sins  that  mo- 
ment, and  tried  to  look  contrite. 

"  In  some  of  my  books,"  he  said,  "  I  read 
of  an  old  belief  held  by  people  on  the  other 
side  of  the  earth.     They  thought  our  souls 


24        THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 

were  born  into  the  world  a  great  many 
times,  now  in  this  body,  and  now  in  that. 
I  feel  as  if  you  and  I  had  been  friends  in 
some  other  state." 

The  girl's  face  seemed  to  flare  toward  him 
as  flame  is  blown,  acknowledging  the  claim 
he  made  upon  her  ;  but  the  look  passed  like 
an  illusion,  and  she  said  seriously,  "  The  sag- 
amore should  speak  to  Father  Petit.  This 
is  heresy." 

Madockawando's  daughter  ,  tood  up,  and 
took  her  pail  by  the  handle. 

"  Let  me  carry  it,"  said  Saint-Castin. 

Her  lifted  palm  barred  his  approach. 

"I  do  not  like  men,  sagamore.  I  wish 
them  to  keep  away  from  me." 

*'  But  that  is  not  Christian,"  he  argued. 

"  It  cannot  be  unchristian :  the  priest 
would  lay  me  under  penance  for  it." 

"  Father  Petit  is  a  lenient  soul." 

With  the  simplicity  of  an  angel  who  would 
not  be  longer  hindered  by  mundane  society, 
she  took  up  her  pail,  saying, "  Good-day,  sag- 
amore," and  swept  on  across  the  dead  leaves. 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.        25 

tSuiut-Ciistin  walked  after  her. 

"  Go  back,"  conimancled  Madockawaiido's 
daughter,  turning. 

The  officer  of  the  Carignan-Salieres  regi- 
ment halted,  but  did  not  retreat. 

"  You  must  not  follow  nie,  sagamore,"  she 
remonstrated,  as  with  a  child.  "  I  cannot 
talk  to  you." 

"  You  must  let  me  talk  to  you,"  said  Saint- 
Castin.     "  I  want  you  for  my  wife." 

She  looked  at  him  in  a  way  that  made  his 
face  scorch.  He  remembered  the  year  wife, 
the  half-year  wife,  and  the  two-months  wife 
at  Pentegoet.  These  three  squaws  whom  he 
had  allowed  to  form  his  household,  and  had 
taught  to  boil  the  pot  au  feu,  came  to  him 
from  many  previous  experimental  marriages. 
They  were  externals  of  his  life,  much  as 
hounds,  boats,  or  guns.  He  could  give  them 
all  rich  dowers,  and  divorce  them  easily  any 
day  to  a  succeeding  line  of  legal  Abenaqui 
husbands.  The  lax  code  of  the  wilderness 
was  irresistible  to  a  Frenchman  ;  but  he  was 
near  enough  in  age  and  in  texture  of  soul  to 


2G         THE  CHASE  OF  .SAINT-CASTIN. 

this  noble  pagan  to  see  at  once,  with  her  eye- 
sight, how  he  had  degraded  the  very  vices  of 
her  people. 

"  Before  the  sun  goes  down,"  vowed  Saint- 
Castin,  "  there  shall  be  nobody  in  my  house 
but  the  two  Etchemin  slave  men  that  your 
father  gave  me." 

The  girl  heard  of  his  promised  reforma- 
tion without  any  kindling  of  the  spirit. 

"  I  am  not  for  a  wife,"  she  answered  him, 
and  walked  on  with  the  pail. 

Again  Saint-Castin  followed  her,  and  took 
the  sap  pail  from  her  hand.  lie  set  it  aside 
on  the  leaves,  and  folded  his  arms.  The 
blood  came  and  went  in  his  face.  He  was 
not  used  to  pleading  with  women.  They 
belonged  to  him  easily,  like  his  natural  ad- 
vantages over  barbarians  in  a  new  world. 
The  slopes  of  the  Pyrenees  bred  strong- 
limbed  men,  cautious  in  policy,  striking  and 
bold  in  figure  and  countenance.  The  Eng- 
lish themselves  have  borne  witness  to  his 
xascinations.  Manhood  had  darkened  only 
the  surface  of  his  skin,  a  milk-white  clean- 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.        27 

ness  breaking  through  it  like  the  outflushing 
of  some  inner  purity.  His  eyes  and  hair 
liiul  a  golden  beauty.  It  would  have  been 
strange  if  he  had  not  roused  at  least  a  de- 
o;rce  of  comradeship  in  the  aboriginal  wo- 
man living  up  to  her  highest  aspirations. 

"  I  love  you.  I  have  thought  of  you,  of 
nobody  but  you,  even  when  I  behaved  the 
worst.  You  have  kept  yourself  hid  from 
nic,  while  I  have  been  thinking  about  you 
ever  since  I  came  to  Acadia.  You  are  the 
woman  I  want  to  marry." 

Madockawando's  daughter  shook  her  head. 
She  had  patience  with  his  fantastic  persis- 
tence, but  it  annoyed  her. 

*'  I  am  not  for  a  wife,"  she  repeated.  "  I 
do  not  like  men." 

"  Is  it  that  you  do  not  like  me  ?  "  . 

"No,"  she  answered  sincerely,  probing 
her  mind  for  the  truth.  "  You  yourself  are 
different  from  our  Abenaqui  men." 

"  Then  why  do  you  make  me  unhappy  ?  "- 

"  I  do  not  make  you  unhappy.  I  do  not 
even  think  of  you." 


28        THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

Again  slie  took  to  her  hurried  course,  for- 
getting tlie  i)ail  of  sap.  Saint-Castin  seized 
it,  and  once  more  followed  her. 

*'  I  beg  that  you  will  kiss  nie,"  he  pleaded, 
trend)ling. 

The  Abenaqui  girl  laughed  aloud. 

*'  Does  the  sagamore  tliink  he  is  an  ob- 
ject of  veneration,  that  1  should  kiss  liim  ?  " 

"  But  will  you  not  at  least  touch  your  lii)s 
to  my  forehead  ?  " 

"  No.     I  touch  my  lips  to  holy  things." 

"You  do  not  understand  the  feeling  I 
have." 

"  No,  I  do  not  understand  it.  If  you 
talked  every  day,  it  would  do  no  good.  My 
thoughts  are  different." 

Saint-Castin  gave  her  the  pail,  and  looked 
her  in  the  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  some  time  understand," 
he  said.  "  I  lived  many  wild  years  before 
I  did." 

She  was  so  glad  to  leave;  him  behind  that 
her  escape  was  like  a  backward  blow,  and 
he  did  not  make  enough  allowance  for  the 


THE  CHASE  OF  SATXT  CASTIN.        29 

natural  antagonism  of  a  young  girl.  Iler 
beautiful  free  motion  was  something  to 
watch.  She  was  a  convert  whose  penances 
were  usually  worked  out  afoot,  for  Father 
Petit  knew  better  than  to  shut  her  up. 

Saint-Castin  had  never  dreamed  there 
were  such  women.  She  was  like  a  nymph 
out  of  a  tree,  without  human  responsiveness, 
y(;t  witli  round  arms  and  waist  and  rosy  col- 
unni  of  neck,  made  to  be  helplessly  adored. 
He  remembered  the  lonesome  moods  of  his 
early  youth.  They  must  have  been  a  pre- 
nioniti(m  of  his  fate  in  falling  completely 
under  the  spell  of  an  unloving  woman. 

Saint-Castin  took  a  roundabout  course, 
and  went  to  Madockawando's  lodge,  near 
the  fort.  All  the  members  of  the  family, 
except  the  old  chief,  were  away  at  the  sugar- 
making.  The  great  Abenaqui's  dignity 
would  not  allow  him  to  drag  in  fuel  to  the 
fire,  so  he  squatted  nursing  the  ashes,  and 
raked  out  a  coal  to  light  tobacco  for  himself 
and  Saint-Castin.  The  white  sagamore  had 
never  before  come  in  full  uniform  to  a  pri- 


80*       TllK  CIIASK  OF  SAL\T  CASTIN. 

vato  talk,  and  it  was  necesHary  to  smoke 
half  an  hoiii"  before  a  word  could  be  said. 

There  was  a  dift'erenee  between  the  chat- 
ter of  civilized  nierj  and  the  deliberations  of 
barbarians.  With  La  Ilontan,  the  Baron  dr 
Saint-Castin  would  have  led  u^)  to  his  busi- 
ness by  a  lon«^  prelude  on  other  subjects. 
With  Madockawando,  he  waited  until  the 
tobacco  had  mellowed  both  their  spirits,  and 
then  said,  — 

"  Father,  I  want  to  marry  your  daughter 
in  the  French  way,  with  i)riest  and  contract, 
and  make  her  the  Baroness  de  Saint-Cas- 
tin." 

Madockawando,  on  his  part,  smoked  the 
matter  fairly  out.  lie  put  an  arm  on  the 
sagamore's  shoulder,  and  lamented  the  ex- 
treme devotion  of  his  daughter.  It  was  a 
good  religion  which  the  black-robed  father 
had  brought  among  the  Abenaquis,  but  who 
had  ever  heard  of  a  woman's  refusing  to  look 
at  men  before  that  religion  came  ?  His  own 
child,  when  she  was  at  home  with  the  tribe, 
lived  as  separate  from  the  family  and  as  in- 


THE  CI  I  ASK  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.        31 

(Icpeiidc'iitly  jih  ii  wiir-fhicf.  In  his  time, 
tli<^  women  (IresHcd  <i;',\\\\o  and  carried  tlio 
children  and  drt^w  shnlges.  Wliat  wonld 
hapiH'n  if  his  dan};]iter  began  to  teach  tliem, 
in  a  house  by  themselves,  to  do  nothing  but 
pray?  Madockawando  rejx'ated  that  his 
son,  the  sagamore,  and  iiis  father,  the  ])riest, 
had  a  good  religion,  but  they  might  see  for 
themselves  what  the  Abenaqui  tribe  would 
come  to  when  the  women  all  set  up  for  med- 
icine squaws.  Then  there  was  his  daughter's 
hiding  in  winter  to  make  what  she  called 
her  retreats,  and  her  proposing  to  take  a 
new  name  from  some  of  the  priest's  okies 
or  saint-spirits,  and  to  be  called  "  Sister." 

"  I  will  never  call  my  own  child  '  Sis- 
ter,' "  vowed  Madockawando.  "  I  could  be 
a  better  Christian  myself,  if  Father  lY'tit 
luid  not  put  spells  on  her." 

The  two  conspirators  against  Father  Pe- 
tit's  proposed  nunnery  felt  grave  and  wicked, 
but  they  encouraged  one  another  in  iniquity. 
Madockawando  smiled  in  bronze  wrinkles 
when  Saint-Castin  told  him  about  the  propo- 


82  .     TlfK  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN, 

HJil  in  tlio  woods.  The  projM'r  tiiiu*  for  court- 
ship wjiH  ovonin^,  as  any  Frenchman  who 
had  lived  a  year  witli  the  triho  ouglit  to 
know  ;  but  when  one  conHidered  Mie  task  ho 
liad  undertaken,  any  time  was  Huitablo  ;  aid 
the  chief  encouraged  him  witli  fnll  consent. 
A  French  niariia<;o  contract  was  no  bctttu* 
than  an  Abcnaqui  niarriaj^e  contract  in  Ma- 
dockawando's  (^yes ;  but  if  Saint-Castin  couhl 
bind  np  his  daup^hter  for  good,  he  woukl  be 
ghid  of  it. 

The  chai)el  of  saplings  and  bark  which 
first  sheltered  Father  Petit's  altar  had  been 
abandoned  when  Saint-Castin  built  a  sub- 
stantial one  of  stone  and  timber  within  the 
fortress  walls,  and  hung  in  its  little  tower  a 
bell,  which  the  most  reluctant  Abenaqni  must 
hear  at  mass  time:  But  as  it  is  well  to  cher- 
ish the  sacred  regard  which  man  has  for 
any  spot  where  he  has  worshiped,  the  priest 
left  a  picture  hanging  on  the  wall  above  the 
bare  chancel,  and  he  kept  the  door  repaired 
on  its  wooden  hinges.  The  chapel  stood  be- 
yond the  forest,  east  of  Pentegoet,  and  close 


rilK  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.        33 

t(»  those;  biitilcnu'utK  which  t'orm  tho  vouHt 
line  horo.  Tlio  tide  made  thiuultu'  as  it  rose 
jiinonj;;  caveniH  and  frotlicd  almost  at  tho 
vcr^o  of  tho  hoi^'hts.  From  tiiis  iicadland 
jMouut  Di'sert  could  he  hccii,  leading  tlu;  host 
of  islands  which  go  out  into  the  Atlantic, 
ethereal  in  fog  or  lurid  in  the  glare  of  sunset. 

Madockawando's  daughter  tended  the  old 
chapel  in  summer,  for  she  had  first  seen  ro- 
ll <•  ion  through  its  door.  She  wound  tho 
lioinely  chancel  rail  with  evergreens,  and 
put  Itiaves  and  red  berries  on  the  walls,  and 
flowers  under  the  sacred  picture  ;  her  Etche- 
iiiin  wonuui  always  keeping  her  company. 
leather  Petit  hoped  to  see  this  rough  shrine 
hecome  a  religious  seminary,  and  strings  of 
women  led  there  every  day  to  take,  like  con- 
tagion, from  an  abbess  the  instruction  they 
took  so  slowly  from  a  priest. 

She  and  the  Etchcmin  found  it  a  dismal 
place,  on  their  first  visit  after  the  winter  re- 
tr(;at.  She  reproached  herself  for  coming  so 
late ;  but  day  and  night  an  influence  now  en- 
compassed Madockawando's  daughter  which 


84        THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 

she  felt  as  a  restraint  on  her  freedom.  A 
voice  singing  softly  the  love-songs  of  south- 
ern France  often  waked  her  from  her  sleep. 
The  words  she  could  not  interpret,  but  the 
tone  the  whole  village  could,  and  she  blushed, 
crowding  paters  on  aves,  until  her  voice 
sometimes  became  as  distinct  as  Saint- 
Castin's  in  resolute  opposition.  It  was  so 
grotesque  that  it  made  her  laugh.  Yet  to 
a  woman  the  most  formidable  quality  in  a 
suitor  is  determination. 

When  the  three  girls  who  had  constituted 
Saint-Castin's  household  at  the  fort  passed 
complacently  back  to  their  own  homes  laden 
with  riches,  Madockawando's  daughter  was 
unreasonably  angry,  and  felt  their  loss  as 
they  were  incapable  of  feeling  it  for  them- 
selves. She  was  alien  to  the  customs  of  her 
people.  The  fact  pressed  upon  her  that  her 
people  were  completely  bound  to  the  white 
sagamore  and  all  his  deeds.  Saint-Castin's 
sins  had  been  open  to  the  tribe,  and  his  re- 
pentance was  just  as  open.  Father  Petit 
praised  him. 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.        35 

"My  son  ffcan  Vincent  dc  TAbadie, 
Baron  de  Saint-Castin,  has  need  of  si)iritual 
aid  to  snstain  him  in  the  paths  of  virtue," 
said  the  priest  inijjressively,  "  and  he  is  seek- 
mf]^  it. 

At  every  church  service  the  lax  sinner 
was  now  on  his  knees  in  phiin  siglit  of  the 
devotee  ;  but  she  never  looked  at  him.  All 
the  tribe  soon  knew  what  he  had  at  heart, 
and  it  was  told  from  camp-fire  to  camp-fire 
liow  he  sat  silent  every  night  in  the  hall  at 
Pcntegoet,  with  his  hair  ruffled  on  his  fore- 
head, growing  more  haggard  from  day  to 
day. 

The  Abenaqui  girl  did  not  talk  with  other 
women  about  what  happened  in  the  commu- 
nity. Dead  saints  crowded  her  mind  to  the 
exclusion  of  living  sinners.  All  that  she 
heard  came  by  way  of  her  companion,  the 
stolid  Etchemin,  and  when  it  was  unprofit- 
able talk  it  was  silenced.  They  labored  to- 
gether all  the  chill  April  afternoon,  bringing 
the  chapel  out  of  its  winter  desolation.  The 
Etchemin   made    brooms   of  hemlock,   and 


36  .      THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

bruslied  down  cobwebs  and  dust,  and  labori- 
onsly  swept  the  rocky  earthen  floor,  while 
the  princess,  standing  upon  a  scaffold  of 
si)lit  log  benches,  wiped  the  sacred  picture 
and  set  a  border  of  tender  moss  around  it. 
It  was  a  gaudy  red  print  representing  a 
pierced  heart.  The  Indian  girl  kissed  every 
sanguinary  drop  which  dribbled  down  the 
coarse  paper.  Fog  and  salt  air  had  given 
it  a  musty  odor,  and  stained  the  edges  with 
mildew.  She  found  it  no  small  labor  to 
cover  these  stains,  and  pin  the  moss  securely 
in  place  with  thorns. 

There  were  no  windows  in  this  chapel. 
A  platform  of  hewed  slabs  had  sui)ported 
the  altar ;  and  when  the  princess  came  down, 
and  the  benches  were  replaced,  she  lifted 
one  of  these  slabs,  as  she  had  often  done 
before,  to  look  into  the  earthen-floored  box 
which  they  made.  Little  animals  did  not 
take  refuge  in  the  wind-beaten  building. 
She  often  wondered  that  it  stood;  though 
the  light  materials  used  by  aboriginal  tribes, 
when  anchored  to  the  earth  as  this  house 
was,  toughly  resisted  wind  and  weather. 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CA8TIN.         37 

The  Etclieniin  sat  down  on  the  ground, 
and  her  mistress  on  the  platform  behind  the 
(^hiincel  rail,  when  everything  else  was  done, 
to  make  a  fresh  rope  of  evergreen.  The 
climbing  and  reaching  and  lifting  had  heated 
their  faces,  and  the  cool  salt  air  flowed  in, 
refreshing  them.  Their  hands  were  pricked 
by  the  spiny  foliage,  but  they  labored  with- 
out complaint,  in  unbroken  meditation.  A 
monotonous  low  singing  of  the  Etchemin's 
kept  company  with  the  breathing  of  the  sea. 
This  decking  of  the  chapel  acted  like  music 
on  the  Abenaqui  girl.  She  wanted  to  be 
quiet,  to  enjoy  it. 

By  the  time  they  were  ready  to  shut  the 
door  for  the  night  the  sj)lasli  of  a  rising  tide 
could  be  heard.  Fog  obliterated  the  islands, 
and  a  bleak  gray  twilight,  like  the  twilights 
of  winter,  began  to  dim  the  woods. 

"  The  sagamore  has  made  a  new  law," 
said  the  Etchemin  woman,  as  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  fort. 

Madockawando's  daughter  looked  at  the 
unguarded  bastions,  and  the  chimneys  of 
Pentegoet  rising  in  a  stack  above  the  walls. 


38  •    THE  CHASE  of  saint  castin. 

"  What  new  law  has  the  sagamore  made  ?  " 
she  inquired. 

*"  lie  says  he  will  no  more  allow  a  man  to 
put  away  his  first  and  true  wife,  for  he  is 
convinced  that  God  does  not  love  incon- 
stancy in  men." 

"  The  sagamore  should  have  kept  his  first 
wife  himself." 

"  But  he  says  he  has  not  yet  had  her,"  an- 
swered the  Etehemin  woman,  glancing  aside 
at  the  princess.  "The  sagamore  will  not 
see  the  end  of  the  sugar-making  to-night." 

*'  Because  he  sits  alone  every  night  by  his 
fire,"  said  Madockawando's  daughter ; "  there 
is  too  much  talk  about  the  sagamore.  It  is 
the  end  of  the  sugar-making  that  your  mind 
is  set  on." 

"  My  husband  is  at  the  camps,"  said  the 
Etehemin  plaintively.  "  Besides,  I  am  very 
tired." 

"  Rest  yourself,  therefore,  by  tramping 
far  to  wait  on  your  husband  and  keep  his 
hands  filled  with  warm  sugar.  I  am  tired, 
and  I  go  to  my  lodge." 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.        39 

"  But  there  is  a  feast  in  the  eamps,  and 
iiohody  has  thought  of  putting  a  kettle  on 
in  the  vilhige.  I  will  first  get  your  meat 
ready." 

"  No,  I  intend  to  observe  a  fast  to-night. 
Go  on  to  the  eanips,  and  serve  my  family  ^ 
there." 

The  Etehemin  looked  toward  the  darken- 
ing hay,  and  around  them  at  those  thieken- 
iiif  •  hosts  of  invisible  terrors  which  are  yet 
dreaded  by  more  enlightened  minds  than 
hers. 

"  No,"  responded  the  princess,  "  I  am  not 
afraid.  Go  on  to  the  camps  while  you  have 
the  courage  to  be  abroad  alone." 

The  Etehemin  woman  set  off  at  a  trot, 
her  heavy  body  shaking,  and  distance  soon 
swallowed  her.  Madockawando's  daughter 
stood  still  in  the  humid  dimness  before  turn- 
ing aside  to  her  lodge.  Perhaps  the  ruddy 
light  which  showed  through  the  open  for- 
tress gate  from  the  hall  of  Pentegoet  gave 
her  a  feeling  of  security.  She  knew  a  man 
was  there ;  and  there  was  not  .a  man  any- 


40-      THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 

where  else  within  half  a  league.  It  was  the 
last  great  night  of  sugar-making.  Not  even 
an  Abenaqui  woman  or  ehikl  remained 
around  the  fort.  Father  Petit  himself  was  at 
the  eamps  to  restrain  riot.  It  would  be  ii 
«  hard  patrol  for  him,  moving  from  fire  to  fire 
half  the  night.  The  master  of  Pentegoet 
rested  very  carelessly  in  his  hold.  It  was 
hardly  a  day's  sail  westward  to  the  English 
post  of  Pemaquid.  Saint-Castin  had  really 
made  ready  for  his  people's  spring  sowing 
and  fishing  with  some  anxiety  for  their  un- 
disturbed peace.  Pemaquid  aggressed  on 
him,  and  he  seriously  thought  of  fitting  out 
a  ship  and  burning  Pemaquid.  In  that 
time,  as  in  this,  the  strong  hand  upheld  its 
own  rights  at  any  cost. 

The  Abenaqui  girl  stood  under  the  north- 
west bastion,  letting  early  night  make  its 
impressions  on  her.  Her  motionless  figure, 
in  indistinct  garments,  could  not  be  seen 
from  the  river ;  but  she  discerned,  rising  up 
the  path  from  the  water,  one  behind  the 
other,  a  ro\y  of   peaked   hats.     Beside   the 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT  CASTIN.        41 

hats  a})i)eai'e(l  giinatoeks.  She  had  never 
seen  any  English,  bnt  neither  her  people  nor 
the  Freneh  showed  snch  tops,  or  came 
stealthily  up  from  the  boat  landing  under 
cover  of  night.  She  did  not  stop  to  vxnint 
them.  Their  business  must  be  with  Saint- 
Castin.  She  ran  along  the  wall.  The  in- 
vaders would  probably  see  her  as  she  ti'ied 
to  close  the  gate ;  it  had  settled  on  its 
hinges,  and  was  too  heavy  for  her.  She 
thought  of  ringing  the  chapel  bell ;  but  be- 
fore any  Abenaqui  could  reach  the  spot  the 
single  man  in  the  fortress  must  be  over- 
powered. 

Saint-Castin  stood  on  his  bachelor  hearth, 
loaning  an  arm  on  the  mantel.  The  light 
shone  on  his  buckskin  fringes,  his  dejected 
shoulders,  and  his  clean  -  shaven  youthful 
face.  A  supper  stood  on  the  table  near  him, 
where  his  Etchemin  servants  had  placed  it 
before  they  trotted  off  to  the  camps.  The 
high  windows  flickered,  and  there  was  not  a 
sound  in  the  house  except  the  low  murmur 
or  craclde  of  the  glowing  backlog,  until  the 


42    •     THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 

door-latch  claiiktHl,  and  tlio  door  How  wide 
and  was  slaiiiiued  shut  again.  Saint-Castin 
looked  u})  with  a  frown,  which  changed  to 
stupid  astonishment. 

Madockawaudo's  daughter  seized  him  by 
the  wrist. 

"  Is  there  any  way  out  of  the  fort  excei)t 
through  the  gate  ?  " 

"  None,"  answered  Saint-Castin. 

"  Is  there  no  way  of  getting  over  the 
wall  ?  " 

"  The  ladder  can  be  used." 

"  Run,  then,  to  the  ladder !     Be  quick." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  demanded  Saint- 
Castin. 

The  Abenaqui  girl  dragged  on  him  with 
all  her  strength  as  he  reached  for  the  iron 
door-latch. 

"  Not  that  way  —  they  will  see  you  —  they 
are  coming  from  the  river!  Go  through 
some  other  door." 

"  Who  are  coming  ?  " 

Yielding  himself  to  her  will,  Saint-Castin 
hurried  with  her  from  room  to  room,  and 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.        43 

out  tlirougli  his  kitchen,  where  the  untidy 
iinploinents  of  his  Etcheniin  shives  lay  scat- 
tered about.  They  ran  past  tlie  storehouse, 
and  ho  picked  up  a  ladder  and  set  it  against 
the  wall. 

''  I  will  run  back  and  ring  the  chapel 
bell,"  panted  the  girl. 

"  Mount !  "  said  Saint-Castin  sternly ;  and 
she  climbed  the  ladder,  convinced  that  he 
would  not  leave  her  behind. 

lie  sat  on  the  wall  and  dragged  the  ladder 
up,  and  let  it  down  on  the  outside.  As  they 
both  reached  the  groimd,  he  understood  what 
enemy  had  nearly  trapped  him  in  his  own 
fortress.  ' 

"The  doors  were  all  standing  wide,"  said 
a  cautious  nasal  voice,  speaking  English, 
at  the  other  side  of  the  wall.  "  Our  fox 
hath  barely  sprung  from  cover.   He  must  be 


near." 


"Is  not  that  the  top  of  a  ladder?"  in- 
quired another  voice. 

At  this  there  was  a  rush  for  the  gate. 
Madockawando's    daughter    ran    like    the 


44        THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTm. 

wind,  with  Saint-Castiirs  liaiid  locked  in 
hers.  She  kiK^w,  by  night  or  day,  every 
turn  of  the  slender  trail  leading  to  the  de- 
serted chapel.  It  came  to  her  mind  as  the 
best  place  of  refuge.  They  were  cut  oft' 
from  the  camj)s,  because  they  nmst  cross 
their  pursuers  on  the  way. 

The  lord  of  Pentegoet  could  hear  bushes 
crackling  behind  him.  The  position  of  the 
ladder  had  pointed  the  direction  of  the 
chase.  He  laughed  in  his  headlong  flight. 
This  was  not  ignominious  running  from 
foes,  but  a  royal  exhilaration.  He  could 
run  all  night,  holding  the  hand  that  guided 
him.  Unheeded  branches  struck  him  across 
the  face.  He  shook  his  hair  back  and  flew 
light-footed,  the  sweep  of  the  magnificent 
body  beside  him  keeping  step.  He  could 
hear  the  tide  boom  against  the  headland, 
and  the  swish  of  its  recoiling  waters.  The 
girl  had  her  way  with  him.  It  did  not  occur 
to  the  officer  of  the  Carignan  regiment  that 
he  should  direct  the  escape,  or  in  any  way 
oppose  the  will  manifested  for  the  first  time 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.        45 

in  liis  favor.  She  felt  for  the  door  of  the 
(lark  little  chapel,  ami  drew  him  in  and 
closed  it.  His  judgment  rejected  the  place, 
but  without  a  word  he  groped  at  her  side 
across  to  the  chancel  rail.  She  lifted  the 
loose  slab  of  the  platform,  and  tried  to 
thrust  him  into  the  earthen-floored  box. 

"  Hide  yourself  first,"  whispered  Samt- 
Castin. 

They  could  hear  feet  running  on  the  flinty 
ap])roach.  The  chase  was  so  close  that  the 
English  might  have  seen  them  enter  the 
chapel. 

"  Get  in,  get  in  !  "  begged  the  Abenaqui 
girl.     *'  They  will  not  hurt  me." 

"  Hide  !  "  said  Saint-Castin,  thrusting  her 
fiercely  in.  "  Would  they  not  carry  off  the 
core  of  Saint-Castin's  heart  if  they  could  ?  " 

She  flattened  herself  on  the  ground  under 
the  platform,  and  gave  him  all  the  space  at 
her  side  that  the  contraction  of  her  body 
left  clear,  and  he  let  the  slab  down  carefully 
over  their  heads.  They  existed  almost  with- 
out breath  for  many  minutes. 


40        TUM:  CUA8E  OF  SAINT  CASTIN. 

Tho  woodoii  (l<)()r-liln«;t*s  crcuketl,  and 
Htumbling  shiuH  blundered  ugainst  tho 
benches. 

"  What  is  this  phice  ?  "  spoke  an  En<;lish 
voice.  "  Let  some  one  take  his  tinder-box 
and  strike  a  light." 

"  Have  care,"  warned  another.  "  Wo  are 
only  half  a  score  in  number.  Our  errand 
was  to  kidnap  Saint-Castin  from  his  hold, 
not  to  get  ourselves  ambushed  by  the  Abe- 
naquis." 

"We  are  too  far  from  the  sloop  now," 
said  a  third.  "  We  shall  be  cut  off  before 
we  get  back,  if  we  have  not  a  care." 

"  But  he  must  be  in  liere." 

"  There  are  naught  but  benches  and  walls 
to  hide  him.  This  must  be  an  idolatrous 
chapel  where  the  filthy  savages  congregate 
to  worship  images." 

"  Come  out  of  the  aboiinnation,  and  let 
us  make  haste  back  to  the  boat.  He  may 
be  this  moment  marshaling  all  his  Indians 
to  surround  us." 

"  Wait.     Let  a  light  first  be  made." 


rilH  CIIASK  OF  SAIXT  CA8TIN.        47 

Saint-CjiMtiii  and  his  coinpsmion  heard  tho 
clicks  of  flint  :ind  .stoid  ;  then  an  inHtant'H 
hhv/A)  of  tinder  mado  oracks  viHible  over 
tiu'ir  hoadrt.  It  died  away,  tho  hnrried, 
wnin^ling  men  bhuftling  about.  One  kieked 
the  platfonn. 

"  Here  is  a  cover,"  he  said  ;  but  darkness 
again  enveloped  tlieni  all. 

"Nothing  is  to  be  gained  by  searching 
farther,"  decided  the  majority.  "  Did  I  not 
tell  you  this  Saint  -  Castin  will  never  be 
caught  ?  The  tide  will  turn,  and  we  shall 
get  stranded  among  the  rocks  of  that  bay. 
It  is  l)etter  to  go  back  without  Saint-Castin 
than  to  stay  and  be  burnt  by  his  Abena- 
quia. 

"  But  here  is  a  loose  board  in  some  floor- 
ing," insisted  the  discoverer  of  the  platform. 
"  I  will  feel  with  the  butt  of  my  gun  if  there 
be  anything  thereunder." 

The  others  had  found  the  door,  and  were 
filing  through  it. 

"  Why  not  with  thy  kiiife,  man  ?  "  sug- 
gested one  of  them. 


48      •  THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN. 

"  That  is  well  thought  of,"  he  answered, 
and  struck  a  half  circle  under  the  boards. 
Whettier  in  this  flourish  he  slashed  any- 
thing he  only  learned  by  the  stain  on  the 
knife,  when  the  sloop  was  dropping  down 
the  bay.  But  the  Abenaqui  girl  knew  what 
he  had  done,  before  the  footsteps  ceased. 
She  sat  beside  Saint-Castin  on  the  platform, 
their  feet  resting  on  the  ground  within  the 
boards.  No  groan  betrayed  him,  but  her 
arms  went  jealously  around  his  body,  and 
her  searching  fingers  found  the  cut  in  the 
buckskin.  She  drew  her  blanket  about  him 
with  a  strength  of  compression  that  made 
it  a  ligature,  and  tied  the  corners  in  a  knot. 

"  Is  it  deep,  sagamore  ?  " 

"Not  deep  enough,"  said  Saint-Castin. 
"  It  will  glue  me  to  my  buckskins  with  a 
little  blood,  but  it  will  not  let  me  out  of  my 
troubles.  I  wonder  why  I  ran  such  a  race 
from  the  English  ?  They  might  have  had 
me,  since  they  want  me,  and  no  one  else 
does." 

"  I  will  kiss  you  now,  sagamore,"  whis- 


THE  CHASE  OF  SAINT-CASTIN.        49 

pered  the  Abenaqui  girl,  trembling  and 
weeping  in  the  chaos  of  her  broken  reserve. 
"  I  cannot  any  longer  hold  out  against  being 
your  wife." 

She  gave  him  her  first  kiss  in  the  sacred 
darkness  of  the  chapel,  and  under  the  pic- 
ture of  the  pierced  heart.  And  it  has  since 
been  recorded  of  her  that  the  Baroness  de 
Saint-Castin  was,  during  her  entire  lifetime, 
the  best  worshiped  wife  in  Acadia. 


THE  BEAUFORT  LOUP-GAROU. 

October  dusk  was  bleak  on  the  St.  Law- 
rence, an  east  wind  feeling  along  the  rivor's 
surface  and  rocking  the  vessels  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam Phips  on  tawny  rollers.  It  was  the 
second  night  that  his  fleet  sat  there  inac- 
tive. During  that  day  a  small  ship  had 
approached  Beau^^ort  landing ;  but  it  stuck 
fast  in  the  mud  and  became  a  mark  for 
gathering  Canadians  until  the  tide  rose  and 
floated  it  off.  At  this  hour  all  the  habi- 
tants about  Beauport  except  one,  and  even 
the  Huron  Indians  of  Lorette,  were  safe 
inside  the  fort  walls.  Cattle  were  driven 
and  sheltered  inland.  Not  a  child's  voice 
coidd  be  heard  in  the  parish  of  Beauport, 
and  not  a  woman's  face  looked  through 
windows  fronting  the  road  leading  up 
toward  Montmorenci.  Juchereau  de  Saint- 
Denis,  the  seignior  of  Beauport,  had  taken 


THE  BEAUrORT  LOUP-GAROU.        51 

liis  tenants  with  him  as  soon  as  the  New 
Kngland  invaders  pushed  into  Quebec 
Basin.  Only  one  man  of  the  muster  hid 
himself  and  stayed  behind,  and  he  was 
too  old  for  military  service.  His  seignior 
might  lament  him,  but  there  was  no  woman 
to  do  so.  Gaspard  had  not  stepped  off  his 
farm  for  years.  The  priest  visited  him 
there,  humoring  a  bent  which  seemed  as 
inelastic  as  a  vow.  He  had  not  seen  the 
ceremonial  of  high  mass  in  the  cathedral 
of  Upper  Town  since  he  was  a  young  man. 

Gaspard' s  farm  was  fifteen  feet  wide  and 
a  mile  long.  It  was  one  of  several  strips 
lying  between  the  St.  Charles  River  and 
'those  heights  east  of  Beauport  which  rise 
to  Montmorenci  Falls.  He  had  his  front 
on  the  greater  stream,  and  his  inland  boun- 
dary among  woods  skirting  the  mountain, 
lie  raised  his  food  and  the  tobacco  he 
smoked,  and  braided  his  summer  hats  of 
straw  and  knitted  his  winter  caps  of  wool. 
One  suit  of  well-fulled  woolen  clothes 
would   have  lasted   a   habitant   a   lifetime. 


52        THE  BEAUFORT  LOUr-GAROU. 

But  Gaspard  had  been  unlucky.  He  lost 
all  his  family  by  smallpox,  and  the  priest 
made  him  burn  his  clothes,  and  ruinously 
fit  himself  with  new.  There  was  no  use  in 
putting  savings  in  the  stocking  any  longer, 
however;  the  children  were  gone.  He 
could  only  buy  masses  for  them.  He  lived 
alone,  the  neighbors  taking  that  loving 
interest  in  him  which  French  Canadians 
bestow  on  one  another. 

More  than  once  Gaspard  thought  he 
would  leave  his  farm  and  go  into  the  world. 
When  Frontenac  returned  to  take  the  par- 
alyzed province  in  hand,  and  fight  Iroquois, 
and  repair  the  mistakes  of  the  last  gov- 
ernor, Gaspard  put  on  his  best  moccasins 
and  the  red  tasseled  sash  he  wore  oidy 
at  Christmas.  "  Gaspard  is  going  to  the 
fort,"  ran  along  the  whole  row  of  Beauport 
houses.  His  neighbors  waited  for  him. 
They  all  carried  their  guns  and  powder  for 
the  purpose  of  firing  salutes  to  Frontenac. 
It  was  a  grand  day.  But  when  Gaspard 
stepped  out  with   the  rest,  his  countenance 


rilE  BEAU  PORT  LOUPGAROU.        53 

fell.  He  coidd  not  tell  what  ailed  him. 
Ilia  friends  coaxed  and  pidled  him ;  they 
gave  him  a  little  brandy.  He  sat  down, 
and  they  were  obliged  to  leave  him,  or  miss 
the  cannonading  and  fireworks  themselves. 
From  his  own  river  front  Gaspard  saw  the 
old  lion's  ship  come  to  port,  and,  in  un- 
formed sentences,  he  reasoned  then  that 
a  man  need  not  leave  his  place  to  take  part 
in  the  worhl. 

Frontenac  had  not  been  back  a  month, 
and  here  was  the  New  England  colony 
of  Massachusetts  swarming  against  New 
France.  "  They  may  carry  me  away  from 
my  hearth  feet  first,"  thought  Gaspard, 
"but  I  am  not  to  be  scared  away  from  it." 

Every  night,  before  putting  the  bar 
across  his  door,  the  old  habitant  went 
out  to  survey  the  two  ends  of  the  earth 
typified  by  the  road  crossing  his  strip  of 
farm.  These  were  usually  good  moments 
for  him.  He  did  not  groan,  as  at  dawn, 
that  there  were  no  children  to  relieve  him 
of   labor.     A    noble    landscape    lifted    on 


64    .     TIIJC  BEAU  PORT  LOUP-GAROU. 

either  hand  from  the  liollow  of  Beauport. 
The  aseeiiding  road  went  on  to  the  little 
chapel  of  Ste.  Anne  de  Beaupre,  which  for 
thirty  years  had  been  considered  a  shrine  in 
New  France.  The  left  hand  road  forded 
the  St.  Charles  and  climbed  the  long  sloj)e 
to  Qnebec  rock. 

Gaspard  loved  the  sounds  which  made 
home  so  satisfying  at  autumn  dusk.  Faint 
and  far  off  he  thought  he  could  hear  the 
lowing  of  his  cow  and  calf.  To  remember 
they  were  exiled  gave  him  the  pang  of  the 
unusual.  He  was  just  chilled  through,  and 
therefore  as  ready  for  his  own  hearth  as  a 
long  journey  could  have  made  him,  when 
a  gray  thing  loped  past  in  the  flinty  dust, 
showing  him  sudden  awful  eyes  and  tongue 
of  red  fire. 

Gaspard  clapped  the  house  door  to  be- 
hind him  and  jnit  up  the  bar.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  Phips  and  tlie  fleet,  of  battle  or 
night  attack,  but  the  terror  which  walked 
in  the  darkness  of  sorcerers'  times  abjectly 
bowed  his  old  legs. 


THE  BEAU  PORT  LOUP-GAROU.         55 

"  O  good  8te.  Anne,  pniy  f'oi*  us  ! "  he 
whispered,  using  an  invocation  familiar  to 
his  lips.  "  If  loups-garous  are  abroad,  also, 
what  is  to  become  of  this  unhappy  land  ?  " 

There  was  a  rattling  knock  on  his  door. 
It  might  be  made  by  the  hilt  of  a  sword ; 
or  (lid  a  loup-garou  ever  clatter  paw  against 
man's  dwelling?  Gaspard  climbed  on  his 
bed. 

"  Father  Gaspard  !  Father  Gaspard  ! 
Are  you  within  ?  " 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

"  Le  Moyne  de  Sainte-Helene.  Don't 
you  know  my  voice  ?  " 

"  My  master  Sahite  -  Helene,  are  you 
alone  ?  " 

"Quite  alone,  except  for  my  horse  tied 
to  your  apple-tree.     Let  me  in." 

The  command  was  not  to  be  slighted. 
Gaspard  got  down  and  admitted  his  visitor. 
More  than  once  had  Sainte-Helene  come  to 
this  hearth.  He  appreciated  the  large  fire, 
and  sat  down  on  a  chair  with  heavy  legs 
which  were  joined  by  bars  resting  on  the 
floor. 


66   •     THE  liEAUrORT  LOUP-GAROU. 

"  My  hands  tingle.  The  dust  on  these 
flint  rojids  is  cohl." 

'^  But  Monsieur  Sainte- Ilelene  never 
walked  with  his  hands  in  the  dust,"  pro- 
tested Gaspard.  The  erect  figure,  bright 
with  all  the  military  finery  of  that  period, 
checked  even  his  superstition  by  imposing 
another  kind  of  awe. 

*''  The  New  England  men  expect  to  make 
us  bite  it  yet,"  responded  Sainte-IIelene. 
"  Saint  -  Denis  is  anxious  about  you,  old 
man.     Why  don't  you  go  to  the  fort?  " 

"  I  will  go  to-morrow,"  promised  Gas- 
pard, relaxing  sheepishly  from  terror. 
*'  These  New  Englanders  have  not  yet 
landed,  and  one's  own  bed  is  very  comfort- 
able in  the  cool  nights." 

"  I  am  used  to  sleeping  anywhere." 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  for  you  are  young." 

"  It  would  make  you  young  again, 
Gaspard,  to  see  Count  Frontenac.  I  wish 
all  New  France  had  seen  him  yesterday 
when  he  defied  Phips  and  sent  the  envoy 
back  to  the  fleet.    The  ofiicer  was  sweating ; 


TUE  HEAUPORT  LOUV-GAliOU.        57 

our  inisc'lilcvoiis  fellows  had  Minded  liiin  at 
the  water's  niX^a^  Jind  dragged  him,  to  the 
damage  of  his  shins,  over  all  the  barricades 
of  Monntain  Street.  He  took  breath  and 
courage  when  they  turned  him  loose  before 
the  governor,  —  though  the  sight  of  Fron- 
tcnac  startled  him,  —  and  handed  over  the 
letter  of  his  commandant  requiring  the 
surrender  of  Quebec." 

"  My  faith,  Monsieur  Sainte-IIclene,  did 
the  governor  blow  him  out  of  the  room  ?  " 

"  The  man  offered  his  open  watch,  de- 
manding an  answer  within  the  hour.  The 
governor  said,  *  I  do  not  need  so  much  time, 
(lo  back  at  once  to  your  master  and  tell 
him  I  will  answer  this  insolent  message  by 
the  mouths  of  my  cannon.'  " 

"By  all  the  saints,  that  was  a  good 
word !  "  swore  Gaspard,  slapping  his  knee 
with  his  wool  cap.  "Neither  the  Iroquois 
nor  the  Bostonnais  will  run  over  us,  now 
that  the  old  governor  is  back.  You  heard 
him  say  it,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  I  heard   him,  yes ;  for  all   his  officers 


68         TIIK  nEAUroilT  LOUP-GAliOU. 

stood  by.  Lii  Jloiitun  was  there,  too,  iind 
that  pet  of  La  lloiitan's,  Baron  de  Saint- 
Castin's  half-breed  son,  of  Pentegoet." 

The  martial  note  in  the  officer's  voiee 
sunk  to  contempt.  Gaspard  was  diverted 
from  the  governor  to  recognize,  with  the 
sj)eeehless  perception  of  an  nntrained  mind, 
that  jealonsy  which  men  established  in  the 
world  have  of  very  young  men.  The  male 
instinct  of  predominance  is  fierce  even  in 
saints.  Le  Moyne  de  Sainte-IIelene,  thougii 
of  the  purest  stock  in  New  France,  had  no 
prejudice  against  a  half-breed. 

"  I  low  is  Mademoiselle  Clementine  ?  " 
Inquired  Gaspard,  arriving  at  the  question 
in  natural  sequence.  "  You  will  see  her  of- 
tener  now  than  when  you  had  to  ride  from 
the  fort." 

The  veins  looked  black  in  his  visitor's 
face.  "  Ask  the  little  Saint-Castin.  Boys 
stand  under  windows  and  talk  to  women 
now.  Men  have  to  be  reconnoitering  the 
enemy." 

"  Monsieur  Anselm  de  Saint-Castin  is  the 


TIIK  BEAU  POUT  LOUP  OAIiOU.        69 

son  of  a  ^ood  fi<^liter,"  observed  (i{is})ar(l. 
"  It  is  said  tlio  New  England  men  hate  his 
very  name." 

"  Anselm  de  Saint-Castin  is  barely  eigh- 
teen years  old." 

"  It  is  the  age  of  Mademoiselle  Clemen- 
tine." 

The  old  habitant  drew  his  three-legged 
stool  to  the  hearth  corner,  and  took  the 
lllM'rty  of  sitting  down  as  the  talk  was 
prolonged.  lie  noticed  the  leaden  color 
which  comes  of  exti'eme  wc^ariness  and  de- 
])ression  dulling  Sainte  -  llclene's  usually 
(lark  and  rosy  skin.  Gaspard  had  heard 
tliat  this  young  man  was  quickest  afoot, 
readiest  with  his  weapon,  most  untiring  in 
tlui  dance,  and  keenest  for  adventure  of  all 
the  eight  brothers  in  his  noble  family.  He 
hud  done  the  French  arms  credit  in  the 
expedition  to  Hudson  Bay  and  many  an- 
other brush  with  their  enemies.  The  fire 
was  l)urning  high  and  clear,  lighting  rafters 
and  their  curious  brown  tassels  of  smoked 
meat,  and  making  the  crucifix  over  the  bed 


GO         Tllh:  UKAUPOUT  LOUP-GAliOlf. 

Hliino  out  tiic  whitcHt  spot  in  u  .siiioke-.staiued 
room. 

**  Father  Gaspard,"  IiKjuIred  Sainte-llu- 
Icno  Hiuldenly,  "  did  you  ever  hear  of  such 
a  tiling  as  a  loup-garou  ?  " 

Tho  ohl  habitant  felt  terror  returnin<r 
with  (H)ld  feet  up  his  baek  and  (uowding  its 
hlaeknoss  ujmn  him  through  the  windows. 
Yet  as  he  rolled  his  eyes  at  the  questioner 
he  felt  ])icpu'd  at  such  ignorance  of  his 
natural  claims. 

*'  Was  I  not  born  on  the  island  of  Or- 
leans, monsieur  ?  " 

Everybody  knew  that  the  island  of  Or- 
leans had  been  from  the  time  of  its  discov- 
ery the  abode  of  loups-gjirous,  sorcerers, 
and  all  those  uncanny  cattle  that  run  in 
the  twilights  of  the  world.  The  western 
point  of  its  wooded  ridge,  which  parts  the 
St.  Lawrence  for  twenty-two  miles,  from 
Beauport  to  Beauprc,  lay  opposite  Gaspard's 
door. 

"  Oh,  you  were  born  on  the  island  of 
Orleans  ?  " 


rilK  HKAUrOIlT  LOUP-GAROU.        Gl 

"Yes,  iiion.su'iii'/'  juiswcrod  (iiispiinl, 
with  tilt)  i)ri(lo  we  take  in  (listinetioii  of 
any  kind. 

"•  liut  you  came  to  live  in  Bejiuport  par- 
ish." 

"  Does  a  goat  turn  to  a  pig,  monsieur, 
because  you  earry  it  to  the  north  shore?" 

"  Perliaps  so :  everything  changes." 

Sainte-1  lelene  loaned  forward,  resting  his 
anus  on  the  arms  of  the  ehair.  He  wrin- 
kled his  eyelids  around  central  points  of 
fire. 

"  What  is  a  loup-garou  ?  " 

"  Does  monsieur  not  know  ?  Monsieur 
Sainte- 1  lelene  surely  knows  that  a  loup- 
gjuou  is  a  man-wolf." 

"  A  man-wolf,"  mused  the  soldier.  "  But 
wlu'n  a  person  is  so  afflicted,  is  he  a  man 
or  is  he  a  wolf?" 

"  It  is  not  an  affliction,  monsieur  ;  it  is 
sorcery." 

"I  think  you  are  right.  Then  the 
wretched  man-wolf  is  past  being  prayed 
for?" 


62  .     THE  BEAUPOIiT  LOUP-GAROU. 

"  If  one  should  repent "  — 

"I  don't  repent  anything,"  returned 
Sainte-Helene ;  and  Gaspard's  jaw  relaxed, 
and  he  had  the  feeling  of  pin-feathers  in  his 
hair.  "  Is  he  a  man  or  is  he  a  wolf  ?  "  re- 
peated the  questioner. 

"  The  loup-garou  is  a  man,  but  he  takes 
the  form  of  a  wolf." 

"Not  all  the  time?" 

"  No,  monsieur,  not  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

Gaspard  experienced  with  us  all  this  par- 
adox :  that  the  older  we  grow,  the  more  visi- 
ble becomes  the  unseen.  In  childhood  the 
external  senses  are  sharp ;  but  maturity 
fuses  flesh  and  spirit.  He  wished  for  a 
priest,  desiring  to  feel  the  arm  of  the  Church 
around  him.  It  was  late  October,  —  a  time 
which  might  be  called  the  yearly  Sabbath 
of  loups-garous. 

"  And  what  must  a  loup-garou  do  with 
himself  ?  "  pursued  Sainte-Helene.  "  I  should 
take  to  the  woods,  and  sit  and  lick  my  chaps, 
and  bless  my  hide  that  I  was  for  the  time  no 
longer  a  man." 


THE  BEAUFORT  LOUP-GAROU.        63 

"  Saints !  monsieur,  he  goes  on  a  chase, 
lie  runs  with  his  tongue  lolled  out,  and  his 
eyes  red  as  blood." 

"  What  eolor  are  my  eyes,  Gaspard?" 

The  old  Frenchman  sputtered,  ''  Monsieur, 
tliey  are  very  black." 

Saiute-Helene  drew  his  hand  across  them. 

"  It  must  be  your  firelight  that  is  so  red. 
I  have  been  seeing  as  through  a  glass  of 
elaret  ever  since  I  came  in." 

Gaspard  moved  farther  into  the  corner, 
the  stool  legs  scraping  the  floor.  Though 
every  hair  on  his  body  crawled  with  super- 
stition, he  could  not  susj^ect  Le  Moyne  de 
Sainte-Helene.  Yet  the  familiar  face  altered 
strangely  while  he  looked  at  it:  the  nose 
sunk  with  sudden  emaciation,  and  the  jaws 
lengthened  to  a  gaunt  muzzle.  There  was  a 
crouching  forward  of  the  shoulders,  as  if  the 
man  were  about  to  drop  on  his  hands  and 
feet.  Gaspard  had  once  fallen*  down  uncon- 
scious in  haying  time ;  and  this  recalled  to 
him  the  breaking  up  and  shimmering  apart 
of  a  solid  landscape.     The  deep  cleft  mouth 


64         THE  BEAUFORT  LOUP-GAROU. 

parted,  lifting  first  at  the  corners  and  show- 
ing teeth,  then  widening  to  the  utterance  of 
a  low  howl. 

Gaspard  tumbled  over  the  stool,  and,  seiz- 
ing it  by  a  leg,  held  it  between  himself  and 
Sainte-IIelenc. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Gaspard  ? "  ex- 
claimed the  officer,  clattering  his  scabbard 
against  the  chair  as  he  rose,  his  lace  and 
plumes  and  ribbons  stirring  anew.  Many  a 
woman  in  the  province  had  not  as  fine  and 
sensitive  a  face  as  the  one  confronting  the 
old  habitant. 

Gaspard  stood  back  against  the  wall,  hold- 
ing the  stool  with  its  legs  bristling  towards 
Sainte-H^lene.    He  shook  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Have  I  done  anything  to  frighten  you  ? 
What  is  the  matter  with  me,  Gaspard,  that 
people  should  treat  me  as  they  do  ?  It  is 
unbearable !  I  take  the  hardest  work,  the 
most  dangerous  posts ;  and  they  are  against 
me  —  against  me." 

The  soldier  lifted  his  clenched  fists,  and 
turned  his  back  on  the  old  man.     The  fire 


THE  BEAUFORT  LOUP-GAROU.        65 

showed  every  curve  of  his  magnificent  stat- 
ure. Wind,  diving  into  the  chimney,  strove 
against  the  sides  for  freedom,  and  startled 
the  silence  with  its  hollow  rumble. 

"  I  forded  the  St.  Charles  when  the  tide 
was  rising,  to  take  you  back  with  me  to  the 
fort.  I  see  you  dread  the  New  Englanders 
less  than  you  do  me.  She  told  her  father 
she  feared  you  were  ill.  But  every  one  is 
well,"  said  Sainte-H^ilene,  lowering  his  arms 
iind  making  for  the  door.  And  it  sounded 
like  an  accusation  against  the  world. 

He  was  scarcely  outside  in  the  wind, 
though  still  holding  the  door,  when  Gaspard 
was  ready  to  put  up  the  bar. 

"  Good-night,  old  man." 

"  Good-night,  monsieur,  good-ni^  ht,  good- 
night ! "  called  Gaspard,  with  quavering  dis- 
patch. He  pushed  the  door,  but  Sainte-Hd- 
lene  looked  around  its  edge.  Again  the  offi- 
cer's face  had  changed,  pinched  by  the  wind, 
and  his  eyes  were  full  of  mocking  laughter. 

"  I  will  say  this  for  a  loup-garou.  Father 
Gaspard  :  a  loup-garou  may  have  a  harder 


(}6     .    THE  BEAUFORT  LOUP-GAROU. 

time  in  this  world  than  the  other  beasts, 
but  he  is  no  coward ;  he  can  make  a  good 
death." 

Ashes  spun  out  over  the  floor,  and  smoke 
rolled  up  around  the  joists,  as  Sainte-lldlene 
shut  himself  into  the  darkness.  Not  satis- 
fied with  barring  the  door,  the  old  habitant 
pushed  his  chest  against  it.  To  this  he 
added  the  chair  and  stool,  and  barricaded  it 
further  with  his  night's  supply  of  firewood. 

"  Would  I  go  over  the  ford  of  the  St. 
Charles  with  him?  "  Gaspard  hoarsely  whis- 
pered as  he  crossed  himself.  "  If  the  New 
England  men  were  burning  my  house,  I 
would  not  go.  And  how  can  a  loup-garou 
get  over  that  water?  The  St.  Charles  is 
blessed ;  I  am  certain  it  is  blessed.  Yet  he 
talked  about  fording  it  like  any  Christian." 

The  old  habitant  was  not  clear  in  his 
mind  what  should  be  done,  except  that  it 
was  no  business  of  his  to  meddle  with  one 
of  Frontenac's  great  officers  and  a  noble  of 
New  France.  But  as  a  measure  of  safety 
for  himself  he  took  down  his  bottle  of  holy 


THE  BEAUFORT  LOUP-GAROU.        67 

water,  hanging  on  the  wall  for  emergencies, 
and  sprinlded  every  part  of  his  dwelling. 

Next  morning,  however,  when  the  misty 
autmnn  light  was  on  the  hills,  promising  a 
clear  day  and  penetrating  snnshine,  as  soon 
as  he  awoke  he  felt  ashamed  of  the  barri- 
cade, and  climbed  out  of  bed  to  remove  it. 

"  The  time  has  at  last  come  when  I  am 
obliged  to  go  to  the  fort,"  thought  Gas- 
pard,  groaning.  "  Governor  Frontenac  will 
not  permit  any  sorcery  in  his  presence.  The 
New  England  men  might  do  me  no  harm, 
but  I  cannot  again  face  a  loup-garou." 

He  dressed  himself  accordingly,  and,  tak- 
ing his  gathered  coin  from  its  hiding-place, 
wrapped  every  piece  separately  in  a  bit  of 
rag,  slid  it  into  his  deep  pocket,  and  sewed 
the  pocket  up.  Then  he  cut  off  enough  ba- 
con to  toast  on  the  raked-out  coals  for  his 
breakfast,  and  hid  the  rest  under  the  floor. 
There  was  no  fastening  on  the  outside  of 
Gaspard's  house.  He  was  obliged  to  latch 
the  door,  and  leave  it  at  the  mercy  of  the 
enemy. 


68    •    THE  BEAU  POET  LOUP-GAROU. 

Notliinj^  was  stirring  in  the  frosted  world. 
He  could  not  yet  see  the  citadel  clearly,  or 
the  heights  of  Levis ;  but  the  ascent  to 
Montmorenci  bristled  with  naked  trees,  and 
in  the  stillness  he  could  hear  the  roar  of  tlie 
falls.  Gaspard  ambled  along  his  belt  of 
ground  to  take  a  last  look.  It  was  like  a 
patchwork  quilt :  a  square  of  wheat  stubble 
showed  here,  and  a  few  yards  of  brown  pros- 
trate peavines  showed  there ;  his  hayfield 
was  less  than  a  stone's  throw  long ;  and  his 
garden  beds,  in  triangles  and  sections  of  all 
shapes,  filled  the  interstices  of  more  ambi- 
tious crops. 

He  had  nearly  reached  the  limit  of  the 
farm,  and  entered  his  neck  of  woods,  when 
the  breathing  of  a  cow  trying  to  nip  some 
comfort  from  the  frosty  sod  delighted  his  ear. 
The  pretty  milker  was  there,  with  her  calf 
at  her  side.  Gaspard  stroked  and  patted 
them.  Though  the  New  Englanders  should 
seize  them  for  beef,  he  could  not  regret  they 
were  wending  home  again.  That  invisible 
cord  binding  him  to  his  own  place,  which 


THE  JiEAUrOIiT  LOUP-GAliOU.        69 

had  wrenched  his  vitals  as  it  stretched,  now 
drew  him  back  like  fate.  He  worked  several 
hours  to  make  his  truants  a  concealing  cor- 
ral of  hay  and  stakes  and  straw  and  stumps 
at  a  place  where  a  hill  spring  threaded  across 
liis  land,  and  then  returned  between  his  own 
boundaries  to  the  house  again. 

The  homesick  zest  of  one  who  has  traveled 
made  his  lips  and  unshaven  chin  protrude, 
as  he  smelled  the  good  interior.  There  was 
th(;  wooden  crane.  There  was  his  wife's  old 
wheel.  There  was  the  sacred  row  of  chil- 
dren's snow-shoes,  which  the  priest  had 
spared  from  burning.  One  really  had  to 
leave  home  to  find  out  what  home  was. 

But  a  great  hubbub  was  beginning  in 
Pliips's  fleet.  Fifes  were  screaming,  drums 
were  beating,  and  shouts  were  lifted  and  an- 
swered by  hearty  voices.  After  their  long 
deliberation,  the  New  Englanders  had  agreed 
upon  some  plan  of  attack.  Gaspard  went 
down  to  his  landing,  and  watched  boatload 
follow  boatload,  until  the  river  was  swarming 
with  little  craft  pulling  directly  for  Beau- 


70     .   THE  BEAUrOET  LOZTP-GAROU. 

port.  He  looked  uneiisily  toward  (Quebec. 
The  old  lion  in  the  citadel  hardly  waited  for 
Phips  to  shift  position,  but  sent  the  first 
shot  booming  out  to  meet  him.  The  New 
England  cannon  answered,  and  soon  Quebec 
height  and  Levis  palisades  rumbled  i)rodi- 
gious  thunder,  and  the  whole  day  was  black 
with  smoke  and  streaked  with  fire. 

Gaspard  took  his  gun,  and  trotted  along 
his  farm  to  the  cover  of  the  trees.  lie  had 
learned  to  fight  in  the  Indian  fashion ;  and 
Le  Moyne  de  Sainte-IIel^ne  fought  the  same 
way.  Before  the  boatloads  of  New  Eng- 
landers  had  all  waded  through  tidal  nuid, 
and  ranged  themselves  by  companies  on 
the  bank,  Sainte-IIelcne,  who  had  been  dis- 
patched by  Frontenac  at  the  first  drumbeat 
on  the  river,  appeared,  ready  to  check  them, 
from  the  woods  of  Beauport.  He  had,  be- 
sides three  hundred  sharpshooters,  the  Lo- 
rette  Hurons  and  the  muster  of  Beauport 
militia,  all  men  with  homes  to  save. 

The  New  Englanders  charged  them,  a 
solid   force,   driving   the  light-footed    bush 


THE  liEAUrOliT  LOUP  GAIiOU.        71 

lighters.  But  it  was  like  driving  the  wind, 
wliicli  turns,  and  at  some  unexpected  (j[uar- 
ter  is  always  ready  for  you  again. 

This  long-range  fighting  went  on  until 
nightfall,  when  the  English  conunander, 
finding  that  his  tormentors  had  disappeared 
as  suddenly  as  they  had  a])peared  in  the 
morning,  tried  to  draw  his  men  together  at 
tlio  St.  Charles  ford,  where  he  expected 
some  small  vessels  woidd  be  sent  to  help  him 
across.  He  made  a  night  camp  here,  with- 
out any  provisions. 

(laspard's  house  was  dark,  like  the  de- 
serted Beauport  homes  all  that  night ;  yet 
one  watching  might  have  seen  smoke  issu- 
ing from  his  chimney  toward  the  stars.  The 
weary  New  England  men  did  not  forage 
through  these  places,  nor  seek  shelter  in 
them.  It  was  impossible  to  know  where  In- 
dians and  Frenchmen  did  not  lie  in  ambush. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  blankets  which 
mufHed  Gaspard's  windows,  however,  fire- 
light shone  with  its  usual  ruddiness,  show- 
ing the  seignior  of  Beauport  prostrate  on  his 


72      riiE  HKAurour  loup-gauou. 

old  teiiiint's  bod.  Jiicliereiiu  de  Saint-Denis 
was  wounded,  and  La  Ilontan,  who  was  with 
the  skirmishers,  and  (Jaspard  had  brought 
him  in  the  dark  (h)vvn  to  the  farmhouse  as 
the  nearest  hospitaL  Baron  La  Ilontan  was 
skillful  in  surgery ;  most  men  had  need  to 
he  in  those  days.  He  took  the  keys,  and 
groped  into  the  seigniory  house  for  the  linen 
chest,  and  i)rovided  lint  and  bandages,  and 
brought  eordials  f rom  tlu!  (!ellar  ;  making  his 
patient  as  comfortable  as  a  wounded  man 
who  was  a  veteran  in  years  could  be  made 
in  the  first  fever  and  thirst  of  suffering.  La 
Ilontan  knew  the  woods,  and  crept  away  b(v 
fore  dawn  to  a  hidden  bivouac  of  llurons 
and  militia ;  wiry  and  venturesome  in  his 
age  as  he  had  been  in  his  youth.  But  Saint- 
Denis  lay  helpless  and  partially  delirious  in 
Gaspard's  house  all  Thursday,  while  the 
bombardment  of  Quebec  made  the  earth 
tremble,  and  the  New  England  ships  were 
being  splintered  by  Frontenac's  cannon ; 
while  Sainte-IIelene  and  his  brother  them- 
selves manned  the  two  batteries  of  Lower 


THE  liKAUPOUT  LOUP-OAROU.        73 

Towu,  iiiminj^  twt'iity-t*oiii'-i)()iiiul  IkiUh  di- 
reetly  against  the  floet ;  while  they  cut  the 
cross  of  St.  Goorge  from  tiio  flagstaff  of  tlio 
admiral,  aiul  Freiiclimcn  abovu  them  in  the 
citadel  rent  the  sky  with  joy  ;  while  the  fleet, 
siiip  hy  ship,  with  shattered  masts  and  leak- 
ing hulls,  drew  off  from  the  iight,  some  of 
tiicm  leaving  eable  and  anchor,  and  drifting 
almost  in  pieces ;  while  the  land  force,  dis- 
couraged, sick,  and  hungry,  waited  for  the 
promised  help  which  never  came. 

Thursday  night  was  so  cold  that  the  St. 
Charles  was  skimmed  with  ice,  and  hoar- 
frost lay  white  on  the  flelds.  But  Saint- 
Denis  was  in  the  fire  of  fever,  and  Gaspard, 
slii)ping  like  a  thief,  continually  brought  him 
fresh  water  from  the  spring. 

He  lay  there  on  Friday,  while  the  land 
force,  refreshed  by  half  rations  sent  from 
the  almost  wrecked  fleet,  made  a  last  stand, 
fighting  hotly  as  they  were  repulsed  from 
New  France.  It  was  twilight  on  Friday 
when  Sainte-IIelcne  was  carried  into  Gas- 
pard's  house  and  laid  on  the  floor.    Gaspard 


74         THE  liKAVPOUT  LOUl'  r.AIiOU. 

felt  eniboldi'iied  to  tukti  the  blankets  from  a 
window  and  roll  thcni  up  to  placi;  undci*  \\h) 
soldier's  head.  Many  Beaupoit  people  werc^ 
oven  then  returnin*;'  to  their  homes.  The 
land  force  did  not  reenibark  until  the  next 
night,  and  the  invaders  did  not  entirely  with- 
draw for  four  days  ;  but  Quebec  was  already 
yieldinf^  uj)  its  refugees.  A  disabled  foe  — 
thougli  a  brave  and  stubborn  one  —  who  had 
his  ships  to  repair,  if  he  would  not  sink  in 
them,  was  no  longer  to  be  greatly  dreaded. 

At  first  the  dusk  I'oom  was  packed  with 
Ilurons  and  Montreal  men.  This  young 
seignior  Sainte-llelene  was  (me  of  the  best 
leaders  of  his  time.  They  were  indignant 
that  the  enemy's  last  scattering  shots  had 
picked  him  off.  The  surgeon  and  La  Ilon- 
tan  put  all  his  followers  out  of  the  door,  — 
he  was  scarcely  conscious  that  they  stood 
by  him,  —  and  left,  beside  his  brother  Loii- 
gueuil,  only  one  young  man  who  had  helped 
carry  him  in. 

Saint-Denis,  on  the  bed,  saw  him  with  the 
swimming  eyes  of   fever.     The  seignior  of 


Tilt:  liEAUPORT  LOUP  CAROU.        75 

B('au])()i't  hud  hopt'cl  to  have  Saintc-II<51cino 
for  his  Hon-in-law.  His  littlo  (.Icnunitlno, 
thi)  chiUl  of  his  ohl  ago,  —  it  was  after  all 
a  fortunate  thing  that  she  was  shut  for 
safety  in  (Quebec,  while  her  father  depended 
for  eare  on  Gaspard.  Saint- Denis  tried  to 
see  Sainte-llelene's  face  ;  but  the  surgeon's 
lu'ljiers  constantly  balked  him,  stooping  and 
rising  and  reaching  for  things.  And  pres- 
t'litly  a  face  he  was  not  expecting  to  see 
grew  on  the  air  before  him. 

Clementine's  foot  had  always  made  a  light 
eliek,  like  a  sheep's  on  a  naked  floor.  But 
Saint-Denis  did  not  hear  her  enter.  She 
touched  her  cheek  to  her  father's.  It  was 
smooth  and  cold  from  the  October  air. 
Clementine's  hair  hung  in  large  pale  ring- 
lets ;  for  she  was  an  ashen  maid,  gray-toned 
and  subdued ;  the  roughest  wind  never  ruf- 
fled her  smoothness.  She  made  her  father 
Iviiow  that  she  had  come  with  Beauport  wo- 
men and  men  from  Quebec,  as  soon  as  any 
were  allowed  to  leave  the  fort,  to  escort  her. 
She  leaned  against  the  bed,  soft  as  a  fleece, 


7G        THE  BEAUrOET  LOUP-GAROU. 

yielding  her  head  to  her  father's  painful 
fondling'.  There  was  no  heroism  in  Cleniun- 
tine ;  but  her  snug  domestic  ways  made  him 
happy  in  his  house. 

"  Sainte-Helene  is  wounded,"  observed 
Saint-Denis. 

She  cast  a  glance  of  fright  over  her  shoul- 
der. 

"  Did  you  not  see  him  when  you  came 
in  ?  " 

"  I  saw  some  one  ;  but  it  is  to  you  that  I 
have  been  wishing  to  come  since  Wednesday 
night." 

"  I  shall  get  well ;  they  Al  me  it  is  not 
so  bad  with  me.  But  how  is  it  with  Sainte- 
Helene  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  father." 

"  Where  is  young  Saint-Castin  ?  Ask 
him." 

"  He  is  helping  the  surgeon,  father." 

"  Poor  child,  how  she  trembles  !  I  would 
thou  hadst  stayed  in  the  fort,  for  these 
sights  are  unfit  for  women.  New  France 
can  as  ill  spare  him  as  we  can,  Clementine. 
Was  that  his  groan  ?  " 


THE  BEAUFORT  LOUP-GAROU.        77 

She  cowered  closer  to  the  bed,  and  an- 
swered, "  I  do  not  know." 

Siiint-Denis  tried  to  sit  up  in  bed,  but 
was  obliged  to  resign  himself,  with  a  gasp, 
to  tlie  straw  jjillows. 

Night  pressed  against  the  unblinded  win- 
dow. A  stir,  not  made  by  the  wind,  was 
heard  at  the  door,  and  Frontenac,  and  Fron- 
tenac's  ReeoUet  confessor,  and  Sainte-He- 
lene's  two  brothers  from  the  citadel,  came 
into  the  room.  The  governor  of  New  France 
was  imposing  in  presence.  Perhaps  there 
was  no  other  officer  in  the  province  to  whom 
he  would  have  galloped  in  such  haste  from 
Quebec.  It  was  a  tidal  moment  in  his  af- 
fairs, and  Frontenac  knew  the  value  of  such 
moments  better  than  most  men.  But  Sainte- 
llelene  did  not  know  the  governor  was  there. 
The  Recollet  father  fell  on  his  knees  and  at 
once  began  his  office. 

Longueuil  sat  down  on  Gaspard's  stool 
and  covered  his  face  against  the  vail.  He 
had  been  hurt  by  a  spent  bullet,  and  one 
arm  needed  bandaging,  but  he  said  nothing 


78        THE  BEAU  PORT  LOUP-GAROU. 

about  it,  though  the  surgeon  was  now  at 
liberty,  standing  and  looking  at  a  patient 
for  whom  nothing  could  be  done.  The 
sterner  brothers  watched,  also,  silent,  as 
Normans  taught  themselves  to  be  in  trouble. 
The  sons  of  Charles  Le  Moyne  carried  his 
name  and  the  lilies  of  France  from  the  Gulf 
of  St.  Lawrence  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

Ansehn  de  Saint-Castin  had  fought  two 
days  alongside  the  man  who  lay  dying.  The 
boy  had  an  ardent  face,  like  his  father's. 
He  was  sorry,  with  the  skin-deep  commisera- 
tion of  youth  for  those  who  fall,  whose  fall- 
ing thins  the  crowded  ranks  of  competition. 
But  he  was  not  for  a  moment  unconscious 
of  the  girl  hiding  her  head  against  her 
father  from  the  sight  of  death.  The  hope 
of  one  man  forever  springing  beside  the 
grave  of  another  must  work  sadness  in  God. 
Yet  Sainte-Helene  did  not  know  any  young 
supplanter  was  there.  He  did  not  miss  or 
care  for  the  fickle  vanity  of  applause ;  lie 
did  not  torment  himself  with  the  spectres 
of  the  mind,  or  feel  himseK  shrinking  with 


THE  BEAUFORT  LOUP-GAROU.        79 

the  littleness  of  jealousy  ;  he  did  not  hun- 
ger for  a  love  that  was  not  in  the  world,  or 
waste  a  Titan's  passion  on  a  human  ewe  any 
more.  For  him,  the  aching  and  bewilder- 
ment, exaltations  and  self-distrusts,  animal 
gljidness  and  subjection  to  the  elements, 
were  done. 

Clementine's  father  beckoned  to  the  boy, 
and  i)ut  her  in  his  care. 

"Take  her  home  to  the  women,"  Saint- 
Denis  whispered.  "  She  is  not  used  to  war 
and  such  sight  as  these.  And  bid  some  of 
the  older  ones  stay  with  her." 

Anselm  and  Clementine  went  out,  their 
lumds  just  touching  as  he  led  her  in  wide 
avoidance  of  the  figure  on  the  floor.  Sainte- 
Ilelene  did  not  know  the  boy  and  girl  left 
him,  for  starlight,  for  silence  together,  tread- 
ing the  silvered  earth  in  one  cadenced  step, 
as  he  awaited  that  moment  when  the  solitary 
spirit  finds  its  utmost  loneliness. 

Gaspard  also  went  out.  When  the  gov- 
ernor sat  in  his  armchair,  and  his  seignior 
lay  on  the  bed,  and  Le  Moyne  de  Sainte- 


80     .  THE  BEAUrORT  LOUr-GAliOU. 

Ilolene  was  stretched  that  way  on  the  floor, 
it  could  liardly  be  decent  for  an  ohl  liabitant 
to  stand  by,  even  cap  in  hand.  Yet  he  coukl 
scarcely  take  his  eyes  from  the  familiar  face 
as  it  changed  in  phosphorescent  light.  The 
features  lifted  themselves  with  firm  nobility, 
expressing  an  archangel's  beauty.  Sainte- 
Helene's  lips^  parted,  and  above  the  patter 
of  the  reciting  li(3collet  the  watchers  were 
startled  by  one  note  like  the  sigh  of  a  wind- 
harp. 

The  Montreal  militia,  the  Lorette  IIii- 
rons,  and  Beauport  men  were  still  thronging 
about,  overflowing  laterally  upon  the  other 
farms.  They  demanded  word  of  the  young 
seignior,  hushing  their  voices.  Some  of 
them  had  gone  into  Gaspard's  milk  cave 
and  handed  out  stale  milk  for  their  own  and 
their  neighbors'  refreshment.  A  group  were 
sitting  on  the  crisp  ground,  with  a  lantern 
in  their  midst,  playing  some  game ;  their 
heads  and  shoulders  moving  with  an  alacrity 
objectless  to  observers,  so  closely  was  the 
light  hemmed  in. 


TJIE  BEAU  PORT  LOUr-GAROU.        81 

Guspurd  readied  liis  gateway  witli  the 
certainty  of  custom.  He  looked  oft'  at  both 
ends  of  the  world.  The  starlit  stretch  of 
road  was  almost  as  deserted  as  when  Quebec 
shut  in  the  inhabitants  of  Beauport.  Frcmi 
the  direction  of  Montmorenci  he  saw  a  gray 
tiling  come  loping  down,  showing  eyes  and 
tongue  of  red  fire.  He  screamed  an  old 
man's  scream,  pointing  to  it,  and  the  cry  of 
"  Loup-garou  !  "  brought  all  Beauport  men 
to  their  feet.  The  flints  clicked.  It  was  a 
time  of  alarms.  Two  shots  were  fired  to- 
gether, and  an  under  ofificer  sprung  across 
the  fence  of  a  neighboring  farm  to  take 
command  of  the  threatened  action. 

The  camp  of  sturdy  New  Englanders  on 
tlie  St.  Charles  was  hid  by  a  swell  in  the 
land.  At  the  outcry,  those  Frenchmen 
around  the  lantern  parted  company,  some 
recoiling  backwards,  and  others  scrambling 
to  seize  their  guns.  But  one  caught  up  the 
huitern,  and  ran  to  the  struggling  beast  in 
the  road. 

Gaspard  pushed  into  the  gathering  crowd, 


82    .    THE  liEAUPOJiT  LOUP-GAliOU. 

and  craned  himself  to  see  the  thing,  also. 
He  saw  a  gaunt  dog,  searching  yet  from 
face  to  face  for  some  lost  idol,  ami  beating 
the  flinty  world  with  a  last  thumj)  of  pro- 
pitiation. 

Frontenac  opened  the  door  and  stood  upon 
the  doorstep.  His  head  almost  reached  the 
overhanging  straw  thatch. 

"  What  is  the  alarm,  my  men  ?  '* 

"Your  excellency,"  the  subaltern  an- 
swered, "  it  was  nothing  but  a  dog.  It  came 
down  from  Montmorenci,  and  some  of  the 
men  shot  it." 

"  Le  Moyne  de  Sainte-Helene,"  declared 
Frontenac,  lowering  his  plumed  hat,  "has 
just  died  for  New  France." 

Gaspard  stayed  out  on  his  river  front 
until  he  felt  half  frozen.  The  old  habitant 
had  not  been  so  disturbed  and  uncomfort- 
able since  his  family  died  of  smallpox. 
Phips's  vessels  lay  near  the  point  of  Orleans 
Island,  a  few  portholes  lighting  their  mass 
of    gloom,    while    two    red    lanterns    aloft 


THE  UEAUrORT  LOUr-dAROU.         83 

burned  like  baleful  eyes  at  the  lost  coast  of 
(^aiiada.  Notliin^  elso  showed  on  the  river. 
Tlie  distant  wall  of  Levis  palisades  eonld 
be  discerned,  and  Quebec  stood  a  mighty 
crown,  its  gems  idl  sparkling.  Behind  Gas- 
pard,  Beauport  was  alive.  The  siege  was 
virtually  over,  and  he  had  not  set  foot  off 
liis  farm  during  Phips's  invasion  of  New 
1^'rance.  lie  did  not  mind  sleeping  on  the 
Hoor,  with  his  heels  to  tlie  fire.  But  there 
were  displacements  and  changes  and  sorrows 
wliich  he  did  mind. 

"  However,"  muttered  the  old  man,  and 
it  was  some  comfort  to  the  vague  aching  in 
his  breast  to  formulate  one  fact  as  solid  as 
the  heights  around,  "  it  is  certain  that  there 
are  loups-garous." 


THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

August  iili>lit  air,  sweot  with  a  half  salt 
hreath  from  the  St.  Lawrence,  met  tlie 
miller  of  San  Joachim  as  he  looked  out; 
hut  he  holted  the  single  thick  door  of  the 
mill,  and  cast  across  it  into  a  ^'taple  a  hook 
as  long  as  his  body  and  as  thick  as  his  arm. 
At  any  alarm  in  the  village  he  must  undo 
these  fastenings,  and  receive  the  refugees 
from  Montgomery  ;  yet  he  could  not  sleep 
without  locking  the  door.  So  all  that  sum- 
mer he  had  slept  on  a  bench  in  the  mill 
basement,  to  be  ready  for  the  call. 

All  the  parishes  on  the  island  of  Orleans, 
and  on  each  side  of  the  river,  quite  to  Mont- 
morenci  Falls,  where  Wolfe's  army  was  en- 
camped, had  been  sacked  by  that  evil  man, 
Captain  Alexander  Montgomery,  whom  the 
English  general  himself  could  hardly  re- 
strain.    San   Joachim   du  Petit   Cap   need 


TIIK  MILL  AT  I'KTJT  CAP.  85 

not  hojio  to  oscupe.  Tt  was  really  Wolfe's 
policy  to  harry  the  country  wliich  in  that 
despairing  summer  of  1750  he  saw  no 
t'liaiice  of  conquering. 

The  mill  was  grinding  with  a  shuddering 
noise  which  covered  all  country  night  sounds. 
But  so  accustomed  was  the  miller  to  this 
lullaby  that  he  fell  asleep  on  his  chaff  cush- 
ion directly,  without  his  usual  review  of 
the  trouble  betwixt  La  Vigne  and  himself, 
lie  was  sensitive  to  his  neighbors'  claims, 
and  the  state  of  the  country  troubled  him, 
but  he  knew  he  could  endure  La  Vigne's 
misfortunes  better  than  any  other  man's. 

Loopholes  in  the  hoary  stone  walls  of  the 
biisement  were  carefully  covered,  but  a  burn- 
ing dip  on  the  hearth  betrayed  them  within. 
There  was  a  deep  blackened  oven  built  at 
right  angles  to  the  fireplace  in  the  south 
wall.  The  stairway  rose  like  a  giant's  lad- 
der to  the  vast  dimness  overhead.  No  other 
such  fortress-mill  was  to  be  found  between 
Cap  Tourinente  and  the  citadel,  or  indeed 
anywhere  on  the  St.  Lawrence.    It  had  been 


86  77//;  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAI\ 

built  not  iiiany  yeai.s  before  by  the  Semi- 
naire  piiestH  of  Quebec  for  tlic  protection 
and  nourishment  of  their  seigniory,  thut  hu;;o 
gi'iuit  of  rich  hind  Htri^tehing  from  Be{iu])r('! 
to  C/Jip  Tourmente,  be<jueiithed  to  the  church 
by  th(^  first  bishop  of  Ciiujuhi. 

The  miller  su(hlenly  diished  \\\)  with  a 
shout.  He  heard  his  wife  scream  above  tlie 
rattle  of  the  null,  and  stumbling  over  base- 
ment litter  he  nnstop])cd  a  loophole  and  saw 
the  village  already  mounting  in  flames. 

The  mill  door's  iron-clamped  tind)ers  were 
beaten  by  a  crowd  of  entreating  hands,  and 
he  tore  back  the  fastenings  and  dragged  his 
neighbors  in.  Children,  women,  men,  fell 
past  him  on  the  basement  floor,  and  ho 
screamed  for  liel})  to  hold  the  door  against 
Montgomery's  men.  The  priest  was  the 
last  one  to  enter  and  the  first  to  set  a 
shoulder  with  the  miller's.  A  discharge  of 
firearms  from  without  made  lightning  in  the 
dim  inclosure,  and  the  cure.  Father  Robi- 
neau  de  Portneuf,  reminded  his  flock  of  the 
guns  they  had  stored  in  the  mill  basement. 


TIIK  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP.  87 

Loopliolt's  were  soon  iiiaiiiietl,  and  the  eiiciny 
wero  driven  back  from  the  mill  door.  The 
loiirlii*^'  torch  of  each  cotta<^e  tiuitch  showed 
them  ill  the  redness  of  their  uniforms,  — 
good  marks  for  enraged  refugees;  so  they 
(hew  a  little  farther  westward  still,  along 
tlu;  hot  narrow  street  of  San  Joachim  du 
Petit  Cap. 

At  an  unoccupied  loophole  Father  Robi- 
neau  watched  his  chapel  burning,  with  its 
meagre  enrichments,  added  year  by  year, 
iiut  this  was  nothing,  when  his  eye  dropped 
to  the  two  or  three  figures  lying  face  down- 
ward on  the  road.  He  turned  himself  to- 
ward the  wailing  of  a  widow  and  a  mother. 

The  miller's  wife  was  coming  downstairs 
with  a  candle,  leaving  her  children  huddled 
in  darkness  at  the  top.  Those  two  dozen 
or  more  people  whom  she  couid  see  lifting 
dazed  looks  at  her  were  perhaps  of  small  ac- 
eomit  in  the  province;  but  they  were  her 
friends  and  neighbors,  and  bounded  her 
whole  experience  of  the  world,  except  that 
anxiety   of   having   her   son    Laurent   with 


88  THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

Montcalm's  militia.  The  dip  light  dropped 
tallow  down  her  petticoat,  and  even  unheeded 
on  one  bare  foot. 

"  My  children,"  exhorted  Father  Robineaii 
through  the  wailing  of  bereaved  women, 
"  have  patience."  The  miller's  wife  stooped 
and  passed  a  hand  acroKs  a  bright  head 
leaning  against  the  stair  side. 

"  Thy  mother  is  safe,  Angele  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  Madame  Sandeau." 

"  Thy  father  and  the  children  are  safe  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  testified  the  miller,  passing 
towards  the  fireplace,  "  La  Vigne  and  all  liis 
are  within.     I  counted  them." 

"  The  saints  be  praised,"  said  his  wife. 

"Yes,  La  Vigne  got  in  safely,"  added 
the  miller,  "  while  that  excellent  Jules  Mar- 
tin, our  good  neighbor,  lies  scalped  out 
there  in  the  road." ' 

"He  does  not  know  what  he  is  saying, 
Angele,"  whispered  his  wife  to  the  weeping 
girl.     But   the   miller   snatched  the  candle 

^  Wolfe  forbade  such  barbarities,  but  Montgomery  did 
not  always  obey.     It  was  practiced  on  both  sides. 


TlIi:  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP.  89 

from  the  hearth  as  if  he  meant  to  fling  liis 
indignation  with  it  at  La  Vigne.  His  worthy 
act,  however,  was  to  light  the  sticks  he  kept 
built  in  the  fireplace  for  such  emergency. 
A  flame  arose,  gradually  revealing  the  black 
earthen  floor,  the  swarm  of  refugees,  and 
even  the  tear-suspending  lashes  of  little  chil- 
dren's eyes. 

La  Vigne  appeared,  sitting  with  his  hands 
ii)  his  hair.  And  the  miller's  wife  saw  there 
was  a  strange  young  demoiselle  among  the 
women  of  the  cote,  trying  to  quiet  them. 
She  had  a  calm  dark  beauty  and  an  elegance 
of  manner  unusual  to  the  provinces,  and  even 
Father  Robineau  beheld  her  with  surprise. 

"  Mademoiselle,  it  ^'s  unfortunate  that  you 
should  be  in  Petit  Cap  at  this  time,"  said 
the  priest. 

"Father,  I  count  myself  fortunate,"  she 
answered,  "  if  no  worse  calamity  has  be- 
fallen me.  My  father  is  safe  within  here. 
Can  you  tell  me  anything  about  my  hus- 
band, Captain  De  Mattissart,  of  the  Langue- 
doe  regiment,  with  General  Montcalm  ?  " 


90  THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

"Madame,  I  never  saw  your  husband." 

"  He  was  to  meet  me  with  escort  at  Petit 
Cap.  We  landed  on  a  little  point,  secretly, 
with  no  people  at  all,  and  my  father  would 
have  returned  in  his  sailboat,  but  my  hus- 
band did  not  meet  us.  These  English  must 
have  cut  him  off,  father." 

"  These  are  not  times  in  which  a  woman 
should  stir  abroad,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Monsieur  the  cure,  there  is  no  such  com- 
fortable doctrine  for  a  man  with  a  daugli- 
ter,"  said  a  figure  at  the  nearest  loophole, 
turning  and  revealing  himself  by  face  and 
presence  a  gentilhomme.  "Especially  a 
daughter  married  to  a  soldier.  I  am  Denys 
of  Bonaventure,  galloping  hither  out  of 
Acadia  at  her  word  of  command." 

The  priest  made  him  a  gesture  of  respect 

and  welcome. 

"  One  of  the  best  liien  in  Acadia  should 
be  of  advantage  to  us  here.  But  I  regret 
madame's  exposure.  You  were  not  by  your- 
selves attempting  to  reach  Montcalm's 
camp 


?" 


THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP.  91 

"  How  do  I  know,  monsieur  the  cure  ? 
My  daughter  commanded  this  expedition." 
Denys  of  Bonaventure  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders and  S2)read  his  pahns  with  a  smile. 

"  We  were  going  to  knock  at  the  door 
of  the  cure  of  Petit  Cap,"  said  the  lady. 
*'  There  was  nothing  else  for  us  to  do ;  but 
the  English  appeared." 

Successive  shots  at  the  loopholes  proved 
that  the  English  had  not  yet  disappeared. 
Deuys  seized  his  gun  again,  and  turned  to 
the  defense,  urging  that  the  children  and 
women  be  sent  out  of  the  way  of  balls. 

Father  Robineau,  on  his  part,  gave  in- 
stant command  to  the  miller's  wife,  and  she 
climbed  the  stairs  again,  heading  a  long  line 
of  distressed  neighbors. 

The  burrs  were  in  the  second  story,  and 
here  the  roaring  of  the  mill  took  possession 
of  all  the  shuddering  air.  Every  massive 
joist  half  growing  from  dimness  overhead 
was  hung  with  ghostly  shreds  of  cobweb; 
and  on  the  grayish  whiteness  of  the  floor  the 
children's  naked  soles  cut  out  oblongs  dot- 
ted with  toe-marks. 


92  TUE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

Mother  Sandeau  made  her  way  first  to  an 
inclosed  corner,  and  looked  around  to  invite 
the  attention  of  her  followers.  Such  vio- 
lence had  been  done  to  her  stolid  habits 
that  she  seemed  to  need  the  sight  of  her 
milk-room  to  restore  her  to  intelligent  ac- 
tion. The  group  was  left  in  half  darkness 
while  she  thrust  her  candle  into  the  milk- 
room,  showing  its  orderly  array  of  flowered 
bowls  amidst  moist  coolness.  Here  was  a 
promise  of  sustenance  to  people  dependent 
for  the  next  mouthful  of  food.  "  It  will  last 
a  few  days,  even  if  the  cows  be  driven  off 
an  1  killed  !  "  said  the  miller's  good  wife. 

But  there  was  the  Acadian  lady  to  be 
first  thought  of.  Neighbors  could  be  easily 
spread  out  on  the  great  floor,  with  rolls  of 
bedding.  Her  own  oasis  of  homestead  stood 
open,  showing  a  small  fireplace  hollowed  in 
one  wall,  two  feet  above  the  floor ;  table 
and  heavy  chairs;  and  sleeping  rooms  be- 
yond. Yet  none  of  these  things  were  good 
enough  to  offer  such  a  stranger. 

"  Take  no  thought  about  me,  good  friend," 


THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP.  98 

said  the  girl,  noticing  Mother  Sandeau's 
anxiously  creased  face.  "  I  shall  presently 
go  back  to  my  father." 

"  But,  no,"  exclaimed  the  miller's  wife, 
"  the  priest  forbids  women  below,  and  there 
is  my  son's  bridal  room  upstairs  with  even  a 
dressing-table  in  it.  I  only  held  back  on 
account  of  Angele  La  Vigne,"  she  added  to 
comprehending  neighbors,  "  but  Angele  will 
attend  to  the  lady  there." 

"Angele  will  gladly  attend  to  the  lady 
anywhere,"  spoke  out  Angele's  mother,  with 
a  resentment  of  her  child's  position  which 
ruin  could  not  crush.  "It  is  the  same  as  if 
marriage  was  never  talked  of  between  your 
son  Laurent  and  her." 

"Yes,  neighbor,  yes,"  said  the  nraller's 
wife  appeasingly.  It  was  not  her  fault  that 
a  pig  had  stopped  the  marriage.  She  gave 
her  own  candle  to  Angele,  with  a  motherly 
look.  The  girl  had  a  pink  and  golden  pret- 
tiness  unusual  among  habitantes.  Though 
all  flush  was  gone  out  of  her  skin  under  the 
stress  of  the  hour,  she  retained  the  innocent 


94  THE  MILL  AT  i'ETIT  CAP. 

clear  pallor  of  an  infant.  Angclo  liuriied 
to  straighten  her  disordered  dress  before 
taking  the  candle,  and  then  led  Madame 
De  Mattissart  up  the  next  flight  of  stairs. 

The  mill's  noise  had  forced  talkers  to  lift 
their  voices,  and  it  now  half  dulled  the 
clamp  of  habitante  shoes  below,  and  the 
whining  of  children  longing  again  for  sleep. 
Huge  square  wooden  hoppers  were  shaking 
down  grain,  and  the  two  or  three  square 
sashes  in  the  thickness  of  front  wall  let  in 
some  light  from  the  burning  cote. 

The  building's  mighty  stone  hollows  were 
as  cool  as  the  dew-pearled  and  river-vapored 
landscape  outside.  Occasional  shots  from 
below  kept  reverberating  upward  through 
two  more  floors  overhead. 

Liiurent's  bridal  apartment  was  of  new 
boards  built  like  a  deck  cabin  at  one  side  of 
the  third  story.  It  was  hard  for  Angele  to 
throw  open  the  door  of  this  savored  little 
place  which  she  had  expected  to  enter  as  a 
bride,  and  the  French  officer's  young  wife 
understood  it,  restraining  the  girl's  hand. 


THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP.  95 

"  Stop,  my  child.  Let  us  not  go  in.  I 
came  up  here  Him  ply  to  quiet  the  others." 

"  But  you  were  to  rest  in  this  chamber, 
madame." 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  rest  when  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  am  wife  or  widow  ?  " 

The  young  girls  looked  at  each  other  with 
piteous  eyes. 

"  This  is  a  terrible  time,  madame." 

"It  will,  however,  pass  by,  in  some  fash- 


ion." 


"  But  what  shall  I  do  for  you,  madame  ? 
Where  will  you  sit  ?  Is  there  nothing  you 
require  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  thirsty.  Is  there  not  running 
water  somewhere  in  this  mill  ?  " 

"There  is  the  flume-chamber  overhead," 
said  Angele.  "  I  will  set  the  light  here, 
and  go  down  for  a  cup,  madame." 

"  Do  not.  We  will  go  to  the  flume- 
chamber  together.  My  hands,  my  throat, 
my  eyes  burn.  Go  on,  Angele,  show  me 
the  way." 

Laurent's    room,   therefore,   was   left   in 


96  rilE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

(Ijirkness,  holding  unseen  its  heat  furniture, 
the  family's  holiday  clothes  of  huge  grained 
flannel,  and  the  little  yellow  spinning-wheel, 
with  its  pile  of  unspun  wool  like  forgotten 
snow. 

In  the  fourth  story,  as  helow,  deep-set 
swinging  windows  had  small  square  panes, 
well  dusted  with  flour.  Nothing  broke  the 
monotony  of  wall  except  a  row  of  family 
snow-shoes.  The  flume-chamber,  inclosed 
from  floor  to  ceiling,  suggested  a  grain's 
sprouting  here  and  there  in  its  upright 
humid  boards. 

As  the  two  girls  glanced  around  this  grim 
space,  they  were  startled  by  silence  throngli 
the  building,  for  the  burrs  ceased  to  work. 
Feet  and  voices  indeed  stirred  below,  but 
the  sashes  no  longer  rattled.  Then  a  tramp- 
ing seemed  following  them  up,  and  Angele 
dragged  the  young  lady  behind  a  stone  pil- 
lar, and  blew  out  their  candle. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ? "  demanded 
Madame  De  Mattissart  in  displeasure.  "  If 
the  door  has  been  forced,  should  we  desert 
our  fathers  ?  " 


THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP.  97 

"  It  is  not  tliat,"  whispered  Aiij^Me.  And 
before  she  could  give  any  reason  for  her  iin- 
pnlse,  the  miller's  head  and  light  appeared 
above  the  stairs.  It  was  natural  enough  for 
AngMo  La  Vigne  to  avoid  Laurent's  father. 
What  puzzled  her  was  to  see  her  own  bare- 
footed father  creeping  after  the  miller,  his  red 
wool  night-cap  pulled  over  dejected  brows. 

These  good  men  had  been  unable  to  meet 
without  quarreling  since  the  match  between 
Laurent  and  Angele  was  broken  off,  on 
account  of  a  pig  which  Father  La  Vigne 
would  not  add  to  her  dower.  Angele  had  a 
blanket,  three  dishes,  six  tin  plates,  and  a 
kneading-trough  ;  at  the  pig  her  father  drew 
the  line,  and  for  a  pig  Laurent's  father  con- 
tended. But  now  all  the  La  Vigne  pigs 
were  roasted  or  scattered,  Angele's  dower 
was  destroyed,  and  what  had  a  ruined  habi- 
tant to  say  to  the  miller  of  Petit  Gap  *^ 

Father  Robineau  had  stopped  the  mill  be- 
cause its  noise  might  cover  attacks.  As  the 
miller  ungeared  his  primitive  machinery,  he 
had  thought  of  saving  water  in  the  flume- 


98     •        THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

cliunibcr.  There  were  wires  and  chains  for 
shuttinp^  off  its  escape. 

lie  now  opened  a  door  in  the  humid  wall 
and  put  his  candle  over  the  clear,  dark 
water.  The  flume  no  longer  furnished  a 
8ui)ply,  and  he  stared  open-lipped,  wonder- 
ing if  the  enemy  had  meddled  with  his 
water-gate  in  the  ui)land. 

The  flume,  at  that  time  the  most  ambi- 
tious wooden  channel  on  the  north  shore, 
supported  on  high  stilts  of  timber,  dripped 
all  the  way  from  a  hill  stream  to  the  fourth 
story  of  Petit  Cap  mill.  The  miller  had 
watched  it  escape  burning  thatches,  yet 
something  had  happened  at  the  dam. 
Shreds  of  moss,  half  floating  and  half 
moored,  reminded  him  to  close  the  reservoir, 
and  he  had  just  moved  the  chains  when  La 
Vigne  startled  him  by  speaking  at  his  ear. 

The  miller  recoiled,  but  almost  in  the 
action  his  face  recovered  itself.  He  wore 
a  gray  wool  night-cap,  and  its  tassel  hung 
down  over  one  lifted  eyebrow. 

*'  Pierre  Sandeau,  my  friend,"  opened  La 


THE  MILL  AT  VKTIT  CAT.  99 

Vigno  with  a  whinipci',  **  I  followed  you  up 
horo  to  weep  with  you." 

"You  (lid  well,"  replied  the  miller  bluntly, 
*'  for  I  am  a  ruined  man  with  the  parirth  to 
focd,  unless  the  Seminaire  fathers  take  pity 
on  me.'" 

"  Yes,  you  have  lost  more  than  all  of  us," 
said  La  Vigne. 

"  I  am  not  the  man  to  measure  losses 
and  exult  over  my  neighbors,"  declared  the 
miller ;  *'  but  how  many  pigs  would  you 
give  to  your  girl's  dower  now,  Guillaume  ?  " 

"  None  at  all,  my  poor  Pierre.  At  least 
she  is  not  a  widow." 

"  Nor  ever  likely  to  be  now,  since  she  has 
no  dower  to  make  her  a  wife." 

"  How  could  she  be  a  wife  without  a  hus- 
band ?  Taunt  me  no  more  about  that  pig. 
I  tell  you  it  is  worse  with  you :  you  have  no 
son." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  have  half  a 
dozen." 

"  But  Laurent  is  shot." 

"  Laurent  —  shot  ?  "    whispered    the   mil- 


100"         THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

ler,  relaxing  his  flabby  face,  and  letting  the 
candle  sink  downward  until  it  spread  their 
shadows  on  the  floor. 

"  Yes,  my  friend,"  whimpered  La  Vigne. 
"  I  saw  him  through  my  window  when  the 
alarm  was  given.  lie  was  doubtless  coming 
to  save  us  all,  for  an  officer  was  with  him. 
Jules  Martin's  thatch  was  just  fired.  It 
was  bright  as  sunrise  against  the  hill,  and 
the  English  saw  our  Laurent  and  his  officer, 
no  doubt,  for  they  shot  them  down,  and  I 
saw  it  through  my  back  window." 

The  miller  sunk  to  his  knees,  and  set  the 
candle  on  the  floor ;  La  Vigne  approached 
and  mingled  night-cap  tassels  and  groans 
with  him. 

"Oh,  my  son!  And  I  quarreled  with 
thee,  Guillaume,  about  a  pig,  and  made  the 
children  unhappy." 

"But  I  was  to  blame  for  that,  Pierre," 
wept  La  Vigne,  "  and  now  we  have  neither 
pig  nor  son !  " 

"  Perhaps  Montgomery's  men  have  scalped 
him ;  "  the  miller  pulled  the  night-cap  from 


THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP.  101 

his  own  head  and  threw  it  on  the  floor  in 
helpless  wretchedness. 

La  Vigne  uttered  a  low  bellow  in  re- 
sponse, and  they  fell  upon  each  other's  necks 
and  were  about  to  lament  together  in  true 
Latin  fashion,  when  the  wife  of  Montcalm's 
officer  called  to  them. 

She  stood  out  from  the  shadow  of  the 
stone  column,  dead  to  all  appearances,  yet 
animate,  and  trying  to  hold  up  Angela 
whose  whole  body  lapsed  downward  in  half 
unconsciousness.    "  Bring  water,"  demanded 

< 

Madame  De  Mattissart. 

And  seeing  who  had  overheard  the  dread- 
ful news,  La  Vigne  ran  to  the  flume-cham- 
ber, and  the  miller  scrambled  up  and  reached 
over  him  to  dip  the  first  handful.  Both 
stooped  within  the  door,  both  recoiled,  and 
both  raised  a  yell  which  echoed  among 
high  rafters  in  the  attic  above.  The  miller 
thought  Montgomery's  entire  troop  were 
stealing  into  the  mill  through  the  flume  ; 
for  a  man's  legs  protruded  from  the  open- 
ing and  wriggled  with  such  vigor  that  his 


102  THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

body  instantly  followed  and  he  dropped  into 
the  water. 

His  beholders  seized  and  dragged  him  out 
upon  the  floor  ;  but  he  threw  off  their  hands, 
sprang  astride  of  the  door-sill,  and  stretched 
himself  to  the  flume  mouth  to  help  another 
man  out  of  it. 

La  Vigne  ran  downstairs  shrieking  for 
the  priest,  as  if  he  had  seen  witchcraft. 
But  the  miller  stood  still,  with  the  candle 
flaring  on  the  floor  behind  him,  not  sure 
01  his  son  Laurent  in  militia  uniform,  but 
trembling  with  some  hope. 

It  was  Madame  De  Mattissart's  cry  to 
her  husband  which  confirmed  the  miller's 
senses.  She  knew  the  young  officer  through 
the  drenching  and  raggedness  of  his  white 
and  gold  uniform  ;  she  understood  how  two 
wounded  men  could  creep  through  any 
length  of  flume,  from  which  a  miller's  son 
would  know  how  to  turn  off  the  water. 
She  had  no  need  to  ask  what  their  sensa- 
tions were,  sliding  down  that  slimy  duct,  or 
how  they  entered  it  without  being  seen  by 


THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP.  103 

the  enemy.  L'^+^  villagers  talk  over  such 
matters,  and  shout  and  exclaim  when  they 
came  to  hear  this  strange  thing.  It  was 
enough  that  her  husband  had  met  her 
through  every  danger,  and  that  he  was  able 
to  stand  and  receive  her  in  his  arms. 

Laurent's  wound  was  serious.  After  all 
his  exertions  he  fainted ;  but  Angele  took 
his  head  upon  her  knee,  and  the  fathers  and 
mothers  and  neighbors  swarmed  around  him, 
and  Father  Robineau  did  him  doctor's  ser- 
vice. Every  priest  then  on  the  St.  Law- 
rence knew  how  to  dress  wounds  as  well  as 
bind  up  spirits. 

Denys  of  Bonaventure,  notwithstanding 
the  excitement  overhead,  kept  men  at  the 
basement  loopholes  until  Montgomery  had 
long  withdrawn  and  returned  to  camp. 

He  then  felt  that  he  could  indulge  him- 
self with  a  sight  of  his  son-in-law,  and  tip- 
toed up  past  the  colony  of  women  and  chil- 
dren whom  the  priest  had  just  driven  again 
to  their  rest  on  the  second  floor ;  past  that 
sacred  chamber  on  the  third  floor,  and  on 


104  THE  MILL  AT  PETIT  CAP. 

up  to  the  flume  loft.  There  Monsieur  De 
Bonaventure  paused,  with  his  head  just 
above  the  boards,  like  a  pleasant-faced 
sphinx. 

*'  Accept  my  salutations,  Captain  De 
Mattissart,"  he  said  laughing.  "  I  am  told 
that  you  and  this  young  militia-man  floated 
down  the  mill-stream  into  this  mill,  with  the 
French  flag  waving  over  your  heads,  to  the 
no  small  discouragement  of  the  English. 
Quebec  will  never  be  taken,  monsieur." 

Long  ago  those  who  found  shelter  in  the 
miU  dispersed  to  rebuild  their  homes  under 
a  new  order  of  things,  or  wedded  like 
Laurent  and  Angele,  and  lived  their  lives 
and  died.  Yet,  witnessing  to  all  these 
things,  the  old  mill  stands  to-day  at  Petit 
Cap,  huge  and  cavernous ;  with  its  oasis  of 
home,  its  milk-room,  its  square  hoppers  and 
flume-chamber  unchanged.  Daylight  refuses 
to  follow  you  into  the  blackened  basement ; 
and  the  shouts  of  Montgomery's  sacking 
horde  seem  to  linger  in  the  mighty  hollows 
overhead. 


WOLFE'S  COVE. 

The  cannon  was  for  the  time  silent,  the 
gunners  being  elsewhere,  but  a  boy's  voice 
called  from  the  bastion  :  — 

"Come  out  here,  mademoiselle.  I  have 
an  apple  for  you." 

"  Where  did  you  get  an  apple  ?  "  replied 
a  girl's  voice. 

"  Monsieur  Bigot  gave  it  to  me.  He  has 
everything  the  king's  stores  will  buy.  His 
slave  was  carrying  a  basketful." 

"  1  do  not  like  Monsieur  Bigot.  His  face 
is  blotched,  and  he  kisses  little  girls." 

"  His  apples  are  better  than  his  manners," 
observed   the   boy,  waiting,  knife  in  hand, 
for  her  to  come  and  see  that  the  division, 
was  a  fair  one. 

She  tiptoed  out  from  the  gallery  of  the 
commandant's  house,  the  wind  blowing  her 
curls  back  from  her  shoulders.     A  bastion 


106  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

of  Fort  St.  Louis  was  like  a  balcony  in  the 
clouds.  The  child's  lithe,  lon<»'  body  made 
a  graceful  line  in  every  posture,  and  her 
face  was  vivid  with  light  and  expression. 

"Perhaps  your  sick  mother  would  like 
this  apple.  Monsieur  Jacques.  We  do  not 
have  any  in  the  fort." 

The  boy  flushed.  lie  held  the  halves 
ready  on  his  palm. 

"  I  thought  of  her ;  but  the  surgeon  might 
forbid  it,  and  she  is  not  fond  of  apples 
when  she  is  well.  And  you  are  always 
fond  of  apples,  Mademoiselle  Anglaise." 

"  My  name  is  Clara  Baker.  If  you  call 
me  Mademoiselle  Anglaise,  I  will  box  your 
ears." 

"  But  you  are  English,"  persisted  the  boy. 
"  You  cannot  help  it.  I  am  sorry  for  it  my- 
self ;  and  when  I  am  grown  I  will  whip  any- 
body that  reproaches  you  for  it." 

They  began  to  eat  the  halves  of  the  apple, 
forgetful  of  Jacques's  sick  mother,  and  to 
quarrel  as  their  two  nations  have  done  since 
France  and  England  stood  on  the  waters. 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  107 

"  Don't  distress  yourself,  Monsieur 
Jacques  Re}3entigiiy.  The  English  will  be 
the  fashion  in  Qiwbec  when  you  are  gro^vn." 

It  was  amusing  to  hear  her  talk  his  lan- 
guage glibly  while  she  prophesied. 

"  Do  you  think  your  ugly  General  Wolfe 
can  ever  make  himself  the  fashion  ? "  re- 
torted Jac(pies.  "  I  saw  him  once  across 
the  Montmorenci  when  I  was  in  my  father's 
camp.  Ilis  face  runs  to  a  point  in  the  mid- 
dle, and  his  legs  are  like  stilts." 

"  Ilis  stilts  will  lift  him  into  Quebec  yet." 

The  boy  shook  his  black  queue.  lie  had 
a  cheek  in  which  the  flush  came  and  went, 
and  black  sparkling  eyes. 

"  The  English  never  can  take  this  prov- 
ince. What  can  you  know  about  it  ?  You 
were  only  a  little  baby  when  Madame  Ka- 
mesay  bought  you  from  the  Iroquois  Indians 
who  had  stolen  you.  If  your  name  had  not 
been  on  your  arm,  you  woidd  not  even 
know  that.  But  a  Le  Moyne  of  Montreal 
knows  all  about  the  province.  My  grand- 
father, Le  Moyne  de  Longueuil,  was  wounded 


108  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

down  there  at  Beaupoi't,  when  the  English 
came  to  take  Canada  before.  And  liis 
brother  Jaequen  that  I  am  named  for  —  Le 
Moyne  de  Sainte-II(:ilene  —  was  killed.  1 
have  often  seen  the  place  where  he  died 
when  I  went  with  my  father  to  our  camp." 

The  little  girl  pushed  back  her  sleeve, 
as  she  did  many  times  a  day,  and  looked 
at  the  name  tattooed  in  })ale  blue  upon  her 
arm.  Jacques  envied  her  that  mark,  and 
she  was  proud  of  it.  Her  traditions  were 
all  French,  but  the  indcdible  stamp,  perhaps 
of  an  English  seaman,  reminded  her  what 
blood  was  in  her  veins. 

The  children  stepped  nearer  the  parapet, 
where  they  could  see  all  Quebec  Basin,  and 
the  French  camp  stretching  its  city  of  tents 
across  the  valley  of  the  St.  Charles.  Beneath 
them  was  Lower  Town,  a  huddle  of  black- 
ened shells  and  tottering  walls. 

"  See  there  what  the  English  have  done," 
said  Clara,  pointing  down  the  sheer  rock. 
"  It  will  be  a  long  time  before  you  and  I 
go  down  Breakneck  Stairs  again  to  see  the 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  109 

])rctty  Images  in  the  cliureh  of  Our  Lady  of 
Victories." 

"They  did  that  two  months  ago,"  replied 
Jacques.  "  It  was  all  they  could  do.  And 
now  they  are  sick  of  bombarding,  and  are 
iroiniT  home.  All  their  soldiers  at  Montmo- 
renci  and  on  the  point  of  Orleans  are  em- 
barking. Their  vessels  keep  running  around 
like  hens  iu  a  shower,  hardly  knowing  what 
to  do." 

"  Look  at  them  getting  in  a  line  yonder," 
insisted  his  born  enemy. 

"  General  Montcalm  is  in  front  of  them 
at  Beauport,"  responded  Jacques. 

The  ground  was  moist  underfoot,  and  the 
rock  on  which  they  leaned  felt  damp.  Que- 
bec grayness  infused  with  light  softened  the 
autumn  world.  No  one  could  behold  with- 
out a  leap  of  the  heart  that  vast  reach  of 
river  and  islands,  and  palisade  and  valley, 
and  far-away  melting  mountain  lines.  In- 
side Quebec  walls  the  children  could  see  the 
Ursuline  convent  near  the  top  of  the  slope, 
showing  holes  in  its  roof.  Nearly  every 
building  in  the  city  had  suffered. 


110  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

Drums  liegiin  to  bent  on  tlu^  British  ships 
ranged  in  front  of  ik'iiuport,  unil  a  cannon 
flashed.  Its  roar  was  shaken  from  height 
to  height.  Then  whoh;  ])roadsides  of  fire 
broke  forth,  and  the  earth  rumbled  with  the 
sound,  and  scarlet  uniforms  filled  the  bouts 
like  floating  poppies. 

"  The  English  may  be  going  home,"  ex- 
ulted Clara,  "but  you  now  see  for  yourself, 
Monsieur  Jacques  Kepentigny,  what  they  in- 
tend to  do  before  they  go." 

"  I  wish  my  father  had  not  been  sent 
with  his  men  back  to  Montreal !  "  exclaimed 
Jacques  in  excitement.  "  But  I  shall  go 
down  to  the  camps,  anyhow." 

"  Your  mother  will  cry,"  threatened  the 
girl. 

"  My  mother  is  used  to  war.  She  often 
lets  me  sleep  in  my  father's  tent.  Tell  her 
I  have  gone  to  the  camps." 

"  They  will  put  you  in  the  guard-house." 

"They  do  not  put  a  Kepentigny  in  the 
guard-house." 

"  If  you  will  stay  here,"  called  the  girl, 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  Ill 

riinnln;:^  after  liim  towaids  tlui  fortrcsH  gate, 
'•  I  will  play  anything  you  wish.  The  can- 
non balls  nii<;ht  hit  you." 

Deaf  to  the  threat  of  danf^or,  ho  made  off 
tlu'ou<;h  cross-cuts  toward  the  Palace  Gate, 
the  one  nearest  the  bridge  of  boats  on  the 
St.  Charles  River. 

"  Very  good,  monsieur.  I  '11  tell  your 
mother,"  she  said,  trembling  and  putting  up 
a  lip. 

But  nothing  except  noise  was  attempted 
at  Beaui)ort.  Jacques  was  so  weary,  as  he 
toiled  back  uphill  in  diminishing  light,  that 
he  gratefully  crawled  upon  a  cart  and  lay 
still,  letting  it  take  him  wherever  the  carter 
might  be  going.  There  were  not  enough 
horses  and  oxen  in  Canada  to  move  the  sup- 
plies for  the  army  from  Montreal  to  Quebec 
by  land.  Transports  had  to  slip  down  the 
St.  Lawrence  by  night,  running  a  gauntlet 
of  vigilant  English  vessels.  Yet  whenever 
the  intendant  Bigot  wanted  to  shift  anything, 
he  did  not  lack  oxen  or  wheels.  Jacques 
did  not  talk  to  the  carter,  but  he  knew  a 


112  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

load  of  kinj^'s  provisions  was  going  ont  to 
Home  favorite  of  tho  iiitendant^s  who  had 
been  set  to  guard  tho  northern  heights.  Tlie 
stealings  of  this  j)oj)ular  civil  oftieor  were 
common  talk  in  (^iiehec. 

That  long  slope  called  the  lUains  of  Abra- 
liam,  whi(!]i  swept  away  from  tho  summit  of 
the  rock  toward  Cap  Rouge,  seemed  V(!ry 
near  the  sky.  Jacques  watched  dusk  en- 
velop this  place.  Patches  of  faded  herbage 
and  stri2)j)ed  corn,  and  a  few  trees  only, 
broke  the  monotony  of  its  extent.  On  tho 
north  side,  overhonging  the  winding  valley 
of  the  St.  Charles,  the  rock's  great  shoulder 
was  called  Cote  Ste.  Genevieve.  The  bald 
plain  was  about  a  mile  wide,  but  the  cart 
jogged  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Quebec  be- 
fore it  reached  the  tents  where  its  freight 
was  to  be  discharged. 

Habit  had  taken  the  young  Repentigny 
daily  to  his  father's  camp,  but  this  was  the 
first  time  he  had  seen  the  guard  along  the 
heights.  Montcahn's  soldiers  knew  him. 
He  was  permitted  to  handle  arms.     Many  a 


WOLFhrs  COVE.  113 

boy  of  liftoon  was  thon  in  tho  ranks,  and 
children  of  his  a«^o  wcrt;  j;rovvin^  used  to 
war.  His  fatlicr  called  it  his  apprentieo- 
ship  to  tho  trade.  A  few  empty  houses 
stood  some  distance  hack  of  the  tents ;  and 
farther  ah)n«:^  the  precipice,  beyond  brush 
and  trees,  other  guards  were  posted.  Sev- 
enty men  and  four  cannon  (completed  tho 
defensive  line  which  Montcahn  had  drawn 
around  the  top  of  the  rock.  Half  the  num- 
ber coukl  have  kept  it,  by  vigihmce.  And 
it  was  evident  that  the  officer  in  charge 
thought  so,  and  was  taking  lulvantage  of  his 
general's  bounty. 

"Remember  I  am  sending  you  to  my 
field  as  well  as  to  your  own,"  the  boy  over- 
hoard  him  say.  Nearly  all  his  company 
were  gathered  in  a  little  mob  before  his 
tent.  He  sat  there  on  a  camp  stool.  They 
were  Canadians  from  Lorette,  anxious  for 
leave  of  absence,  and  full  of  promises. 

"Yes,  monsieur,  we  will  remember  your 
field."  "  Yes,  Captain  Vergor,  your  grain 
as  soon  as  we  have  gathered  ours  in."  "  It 
shall  be  done,  captain." 


114  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

Jacques  had  heard  of  Vergor.  A  few 
years  before,  Vergor  had  been  put  under 
arrest  for  giving  up  Fort  Beausejour,  in 
Acadia,  to  the  English  without  firing  a 
shot.  The  boy  thought  it  strange  that  such 
a  man  should  be  put  in  charge  of  any  part  of 
the  defensive  cordon  around  Quebec.  But 
Vergor  had  a  friend  in  the  intend  ant  Bigot, 
who  knew  how  to  reinstate  his  disgraced 
favorites.  The  arriving  cart  drew  the  cap- 
tain's attention  from  his  departing  men. 
He  smiled,  his  depressed  nose  and  fleshy 
lil)s  being  entirely  good-natured. 

"  A  load  of  provisions,  and  a  recruit  for 
my  company,"  he  said. 

"  Monsieur  the  captain  needs  recruits," 
observed  Jacques. 

"  Society  is  what  I  need  most,"  said  Ver- 
gor. "  And  from  appearances  I  am  going 
to  have  it  at  my  supper  which  the  cook  is 
about  to  set  before  me." 

"  I  think  I  will  stay  all  night  here,"  said 
Jacques. 

"  You  overwhelm  me,"  responded  Vergor. 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  116 

"  There  are  so  many  empty  tents." 

"  Fill  as  many  of  them  as  you  can,"  sug- 
gested Vergor.  "  You  vlyc  doubtless  much 
away  from  your  mother,  inspecting  the 
troops;  but  what  will  madame  say  if  you 
fail  to  answer  at  her  roll  call  to-night  ?  " 

"Nothing.  I  should  be  in  my  father's 
tent  at  Montreal,  if  she  had  been  able  to  go 
when  he  was  ordered  back  there." 

"  Who  is  your  father  ?  " 

"  Le  Gardeur  de  Rej)entigny." 

Vergor  drew  his  lips  together  for  a  soft 
whistle,  as  he  rose  to  direct  the  storing  of 
his  goods. 

"  It  is  a  young  general  with  whom  I  am 
to  have  the  honor  of  messing.  I  thought  he 
liad  the  air  of  camps  and  courts  the  moment 
I  saw  his  head  over  the  side  of  the  cart." 

Many  a  boy  secretly  despises  the  man  to 
whose  merry  insolence  he  submits.  But  the 
young  Repentigny  felt  for  Vergor  such  con- 
tempt as  only  an  incompetent  officer  in- 
spires. 

No  sentinels   were   stationed.     The   few 


116"  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

soldiers  remaining  busied  themselves  over 
their  mess  fires.  Jacques  looked  down  a 
cove  not  quite  as  steep  as  the  rest  of  the 
cliff,  yet  as  nearly  perpendicular  as  any 
surface  on  which  trees  and  bushes  can  take 
hold.  It  was  clothed  with  a  thick  growtli 
of  sere  weeds,  cut  by  one  hint  of  a  diagonal 
line.  Perhaps  laborers  at  a  fulling  mill 
now  rotting  below  had  once  climbed  this 
rock.  Rain  had  carried  the  earth  from 
above  in  small  cataracts  down  its  face, 
making  a  thin  alluvial  coating.  A  strij)  of 
land  separated  the  rock  from  the  St.  Law- 
rence, which  looked  wide  and  gray  in  the 
evening  light.  Showers  raked  the  far-off 
opposite  hills.  Leaves  showing  scarlet  or 
orange  were  dulled  by  flying  mist. 

The  boy  noticed  more  boats  drifting  up 
river  on  the  tide  than  he  had  counted  in 
Quebec  Basin. 

"  Where  are  all  the  vessels  going  ?  "  he 
asked  the  nearest  soldier. 

"Nowhere.  They  only  move  back  and 
forth  with  the  tide." 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  117 

"  But  they  are  English  ships.  Why 
don't  you  fire  on  them  ?  " 

"We  have  no  orders.  And  besides,  our 
own  transports  have  to  slip  down  among 
them  at  night.  One  is  pretty  careful  not 
to  knock  the  bottom  out  of  the  dish  which 
carries  his  meat." 

"  The  English  might  land  down  there 
some  dark  night." 

"  They  may  land  ;  but,  unfortunately  for 
themselves,  they  have  no  wings." 

The  boy  did  not  answer,  but  he  thought, 
"If  my  father  and  General  Levis  were 
posted  here,  wings  would  be  of  no  use  to 
the  English." 

His  distinct  little  figure,  outlined  against 
the  sky,  could  be  seen  from  the  prisoners' 
ship.  One  prisoner  saw  him  without  taking 
any  note  that  he  was  a  child.  Her  eyes 
were  fierce  and  red-rimmed.  She  was  the 
only  woman  on  the  deck,  having  come  up 
the  gangway  to  get  rid  of  habitantes. 
These  fellow-prisoners  of  hers  were  that 
moment  putting  their  heads  together  below 


lis  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

and  talking  about  Mademoiselle  Jeannette 
Descheneaux.  They  were  perhaps  the  only 
people  in  the  world  who  took  any  thought 
of  her.  Highlanders  and  seamen  moving 
on  deck  scarcely  saw  her.  In  every  age  of 
the  world  beauty  has  ruled  men.  Jeannette 
Descheneaux  was  a  big,  manly  French- 
woman, with  a  heavy  voice.  In  Quebec, 
she  was  a  contrast  to  the  exquisite  and  di- 
aphanous creatures  who  sometimes  kneeled 
beside  her  in  the  cathedral,  or  lool^d  out  of 
sledge  or  sedan  chair  at  her  as  she  tramped 
the  narrow  streets.  They  were  the  beauties 
of  the  governor's  court,  who  permitted  in  a 
new  land  the  corrupt  gallantries  of  Ver- 
sailles. She  was  the  daughter  of  a  shoe- 
maker, and  had  been  raised  to  a  semi-official 
position  by  the  promotion  of  her  brother  in 
the  government.  Her  brother  had  grown 
rich  with  the  company  of  speculators  who 
preyed  on  the  province  and  the  king's 
stores.  He  had  one  motherless  child,  and 
Jeannette  took  charge  of  it  and  his  house 
until  the  child  died.     She   was   perhaps  a 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  119 

masculine  nourisher  of  infancy ;  yet  the 
upright  mark  between  her  bhick  eyebrows, 
80  deep  that  it  seemed  made  by  a  hatchet, 
had  never  been  there  before  the  baby's 
death  ;  and  it  was  by  stubbornly  venturing 
too  far  among  the  parishes  to  seek  the 
child's  foster  mother,  who  was  said  to  be  in 
some  peril  at  Petit  Cap,  that  Jeannette  got 
herself  taken  prisoner. 

For  a  month  this  active  woman  had  been 
a  dreamer  of  dreams.  Every  day  the  prison 
sliip  floated  down  to  Quebec,  and  her  past 
stood  before  her  like  a  picture.  Every 
night  it  floated  up  to  Cap  Rouge,  where 
French  camp  fires  flecked  tlie  gorge  and  the 
north  shore  stretching  westward.  No  strict 
guard  was  kept  over  the  prisoners.  She  sat 
on  tlie  ship's  deck,  and  a  delicious  languor, 
unlike  any  former  experience,  grew  and 
grew  upon  her.  The  coaxing  graces  of 
pretty  women  she  never  caricatured.  Her 
skin  was  of  the  dark  red  tint  which  denotes 
a  testy  disposition.  She  had  fierce  one- 
sided wars  for  trivial  reasons,  and  was  by 


120  WOLFIJ'S  COVE. 

nature  an  aggressive  partisan,  even  in  the 
cause  of  a  dog  or  a  cat.  Being  a  woman  of 
few  phrases,  she  repeated  these  as  often  as 
she  had  occasion  for  speech,  and  divided  the 
world  simi)ly  into  two  chisses ;  two  or  three 
individuals,  including  herself,  were  human 
beings  ;  the  rest  of  mankind  she  denounced, 
in  a  voice  which  shook  the  walls,  as  spawn. 
One  does  not  like  to  be  called  spawn. 

Though  »Teannette  had  never  given  her- 
self to  exaggerated  worship,  she  was  reli- 
gious. The  lack  of  priest  and  mass  on  the 
prison  transport  was  blamed  for  the  change 
which  came  over  her.  A  haze  of  real  femi- 
nine softness,  like  the  autumn's  purpling  of 
rocks,  made  her  bones  less  prominent.  But 
the  habitantes,  common  women  from  the 
parishes,  who  had  children  and  a  few  of 
their  men  with  them,  saw  what  ailed  her. 
They  noticed  that  while  her  enmity  to  the 
English  remained  imchanged,  she  woiUd  not 
hear  a  word  against  the  Highlanders,  though 
Colonel  Fraser  and  his  Seventy-Eighth 
Highland  regiment  had  taken  her  prisoner. 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  121 

It  is  true,  Jeannette  was  treated  with  defer- 
ence, and  her  food  was  sent  to  her  from  the 
officer's  table,  and  she  had  privacy  on  the 
sliip  which  the  commoner  prisoners  had  not. 
It  is  also  true  that  Colonel  Fraser  was  a  gen- 
tleman, detesting"  the  parish-burning  to  which 
his  command  was  ordered  for  a  time.  But 
the  habitantes  laid  much  to  his  blue  eyes 
and  yellow  hair,  and  the  picturesqueness  of 
the  red  and  pale  green  Fraser  tartan.  They 
nudged  one  another  when  Jeannette  began 
to  plait  her  strong  black  locks,  and  make  a 
coronet  of  them  on  her  sloj)ing  head.  She 
was  always  exact  and  neat  in  her  dress,  and 
its  mann'shness  stood  her  in  good  stead  dur- 
ing her  month's  imprisonment.  Rough  wool 
was  her  invariable  wear,  instead  of  taffetas 
and  silky  furs,  which  Quebec  women  de- 
lighted in.  She  groomed  herself  carefully 
each  day  for  that  approach  to  the  English 
camp  at  Point  Levi  which  the  tide  accom- 
plished. Her  features  could  be  distinguished 
half  a  mile.  On  the  days  when  Colonel 
Fraser's  fezlike  plumed  bonnet  was  lifted  to 


12^  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

her  111  the  camp,  she  went  up  the  river  again 
in  a  trance  of  quiet.  On  other  days  the 
habitantes  laughed,  and  said  to  one  another, 
"  Mademoiselle  will  certainly  break  through 
the  deck  with  her  tramping." 

There  was  a  general  restlessness  on  the 
prison  ship.  The  English  sailors  wanted  to 
go  home.  Tl-e  Canadians  had  been  patient 
since  the  middle  of  August.  But  this  par- 
ticular September  night,  as  they  drifted  up 
past  the  rock,  and  saw  the  defenses  of  their 
country  bristling  against  them,  the  feeling 
of  homesickness  vented  itself  in  complaints. 
Jeannette  was  in  her  cabin,  and  heard  them 
abuse  Colonel  Fraser  and  his  Highlanders 
as  kidnapers  of  women  and  children,  and 
burners  of  churches.  She  came  out  of  her 
retreat,  and  hovered  over  them  like  a  hawk. 
The  men  pulled  their  caps  off,  droUy  grin- 
ning. 

"  It  is  true,"  added  one  of  them,  "  that 
General  Montcalm  is  to  blame  for  letting 
the  parishes  burn.  And  at  least  he  might 
take  us  away  from  the  English." 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  123 

"  Do  you  think  Monsieur  cle  Montealni 
liiis  nothing  to  do  but  bring  you  in  off  the 
river  ?  "  tleniantled  Jeannette. 

"Mademoiselle  does  not  want  to  be 
brought  in,"  retorted  one  of  the  women. 
"  As  for  us,  we  are  not  in  love  with  these 
officers  who  wear  petticoats,  or  with  any  of 


our  enemies." 


"  Spawn ! "  Jeanette  hurled  at  them. 
Yet  her  partisan  fury  died  in  her  throat. 
She  went  up  on  deck  to  be  away  from  her 
accusers.  The  seamed  precipice,  the  in- 
dented cove  with  the  child's  figure  standing 
at  the  top,  and  all  the  panorama  to  which 
she  was  so  accustomed  by  morning  light  or 
twilight  passed  before  her  without  being 
seen  by  her  fierce  red-rimmed  eyes. 

Jeannette  Descheneaux  had  walked 
through  the  midst  of  colonial  intrigues  with- 
out knowing  that  they  existed.  Men  she 
ignored ;  and  she  could  not  now  account  for 
her  keen  knowledge  that  there  was  a  colonel 
of  the  Seventy-Eighth  Highlanders.  Her 
entanglement  had  taken  her  in  the  very  sim- 


124  WOLFE'S  COVK 

plicity  of  childhood.  She  eoidd  not  blaiiiu 
him.  He  had  done  nothing  but  lift  his  bon- 
net to  her,  and  treat  her  with  deference  be- 
cause he  was  sorry  she  had  fallen  into  his 
hands.  But  at  first  she  fought  with  silent 
fury  the  power  he  unconsciously  held  over 
her.  She  felt  only  the  shame  of  it,  which 
the  habitantes  had  cast  upon  her.  Nobody 
had  ever  called  Jeannette  Descheneaux  a 
silly  woman.  In  early  life  it  was  thought 
she  had  a  vocation  for  the  convent ;  but  she 
drew  back  from  that,  and  now  she  was  sud- 
denly desolate.  Iler  brother  had  his  conso- 
lations.    There  was  nothing  for  her. 

Scant  tears,  oozing  like  blood,  moistened 
her  eyes.  She  took  hold  of  her  throat  to 
strangle  a  sob.  Her  teeth  chattered  in  the 
wind  blowing  down  river.  Constellations 
came  up  over  the  rock's  long  shoulder. 
Though  it  was  a  dark  night,  the  stars  were 
clear.  She  took  no  heed  of  the  French 
camp  fires  in  the  gorge  and  along  the  bank. 
The  French  commander  there  had  followed 
the  erratic  motions  of  English  boats  until 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  126 

tlioy  ceased  to  alarm  him.  It  was  flood  tide. 
Tlio  prison  ship  sat  on  the  water,  scarcely 
swinging. 

At  one  o'clock  .feannetto  was  still  on  deck, 
having  watched  through  the  midnight  of  her 
experience.  She  had  no  phrases  for  her 
thoughts.  They  were  dumb,  but  they  filled 
licr  to  the  outermost  layer  of  her  skin,  and 
(leiidened  sensation. 

Boats  began  to  disturb  her,  however. 
Tliey  trailed  past  the  ship  with  a  muttied 
swisli,  all  of  them  disappearing  in  the  dark- 
ness. This  gathering  must  have  been  going 
on  some  time  before  she  noticed  it.  The 
lantern  hanging  aloft  made  a  mere  warning 
spot  in  the  darkness,  for  the  lights  on  deck 
had  been  put  out.  All  the  English  ships, 
when  she  looked  about  her,  were  to  be 
guessed  at,  for  not  a  port-hole  cast  its  cylin- 
der of  radiance  on  the  water.  Night  muffled 
their  hulls,  and  their  safety  lights  hung  in  a 
scattered  constellation.  In  one  place  two 
lanterns  hung  on  one  mast. 

Jeannette  felt  the  pull  of  the  ebbing  tide. 


12G  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

TliL'  .ship  giivo  way  to  it.  As  it  swung,  and 
the  monotonous  How  of  thu  wiitei'  becuino 
constant,  she  heard  a  boat  grate,  a^'il  directly 
Colonel  Fraser  came  up  the  vessel ;»  side, 
and  stood  on  deck  where  she  could  toucli 
him.  lie  did  not  know  that  the  lump  jf 
blackness  almost  beneath  his  hand  was  a 
breathing  woimin;  and  it'  he  had  known,  he 
would  have  disregarded  her  then.  But 
she  knew  him,  from  indistinct  cap  and 
the  white  pouch  at  his  girdle  to  the  flat 
Highland  shoes. 

Whether  the  Highlanders  on  the  ship 
were  watching  for  him  to  appear  as  their 
signal,  or  he  had  some  private  admonition 
for  them,  they  started  up  from  spots  whieli 
Jeannette  had  thought  vacant  darkness, 
probably  armed  and  wrapped  in  their  plaids. 
She  did  not  know  what  he  said  to  them. 
One  by  one  they  got  quickly  over  the  ship's 
side.  She  did  not  form  any  resolution,  and 
neither  did  she  hesitate ;  but,  drawing  tight 
around  her  the  jjlaidlike  length  of  shawl 
which  had  served  her  nearly  a  lifetime,  she 
stood  up  ready  to  take  her  turn. 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  127 

Jcannctto  aocincd  to  swallow  lior  hoart  as 
she  (slimbed  over  tlio  rail.  Tlw^  Ili^hlaiulors 
vv«'re  all  in  tlio  boat  oxcopt  tluur  colonol. 
ITo  «lrow  ill  his  liicatli  with  a  .startled  sound, 
and  she  knew  tlio  swoop  of  her  skirt  must 
liavo  hotrayed  her.  Sli(»  expected  to  fall 
into  the  rivor ;  but  her  hand  took  sure  hohl 
of  a  laddtu"  of  rope,  and,  creeping  down 
backward,  she  sot  her  foot  in  the  bateau. 
It  was  a  large  and  steady  open  boat.  Some 
of  the  inen  were  standing.  She  had  (^nterod 
tlie  bow.  and  as  Colonel  Frasor  dropped  in 
they  cast  o£f,  and  she  sat  down,  finding  a 
bonch  as  she  had  found  foothold.  The 
IIi<;hland  officer  was  beside  her.  They 
could  not  see  each  other's  faces.  She  was 
not  sure  he  had  detected  her.  The  hardi- 
liood  which  had  taken  her  beyond  the 
French  lines  in  search  of  one  whom  she  felt 
under  her  protection  was  no  longer  in  her. 
A  cowering  woman  with  a  boatload  of  Eng- 
lish soldiers  palpitated  under  the  darkness. 
It  was  necessary  only  to  steer  ;  both  tide 
and  current   carried   them    steadily   down. 


128  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

On  the  surface  of  the  river,  lines  of  daik 
objects  followed.  A  fleet  of  the  enemy's 
transports  was  moving  towards  Quebec. 

To  most  women  country  means  home. 
Jeannette  was  tenaciously  fond  of  the  gray 
old  city  of  Quebec,  but  home  to  her  was  to 
be  near  that  Highland  officer.  Her  humili- 
ation passed  into  the  very  agony  of  tender- 
ness. To  go  wherever  he  was  going  was 
enough.  She  did  not  want  him  to  speak 
to  her,  or  touch  her,  or  give  any  sign 
that  he  knew  she  was  in  the  world.  She 
wanted  to  sit  still  by  his  side  imder  the 
negation  of  darkness  and  be  satisfied. 
Jeannette  had  never  dreamed  how  long  the 
hours  between  turn  of  tide  and  dawii 
may  ^e.  They  were  the  principal  part  of 
her  life. 

Keen  stars  held  the  sky  at  immeasurable 
heights.  There  was  no  mist.  The  chill 
wind  had  swept  the  river  clear  like  a  great 
path.  Within  reach  of  Jeannette's  hand, 
but  hidden  from  her,  as  most  of  us  are 
hidden  from  one  another,  sat  one  more  sol- 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  129 

itary  than  herself.  He  had  not  her  robust 
body.  Disease  and  anxiety  had  worn  him 
jiway  while  he  was  hopelessly  besieging 
Quebec.  In  that  last  hour  before  the  13th 
of  September  dawned,  General  Wolfe  was 
groping  down  river  toward  one  of  the  most 
desperate  military  attempts  in  the  history 
of  the  world. 

There  was  no  sound  but  the  rustle  of  the 
water,  the  stir  of  a  foot  as  some  standing 
man  shifted  his  weight,  and  the  light  click 
of  metal  as  guns  in  unsteady  hands  touched 
barrels.  A  voice,  modulating  rhythm 
which  Jeannette  could  not  understand, 
began  to  speak.  General  Wolfe  was  re- 
citing an  English  poem.  The  strain  upon 
his  soul  was  more  than  he  could  bear,  and 
he  relieved  it  by  those  low-uttered  rhymes. 
Jeannette  did  not  know  one  word  of  Eng- 
lish. The  meaning  which  reached  her  was 
a  dirge,  but  a  noble  dirge ;  the  death  hymn 
of  a  human  being  who  has  lived  up  to  his 
capacities.  She  felt  strangely  influenced,  as 
by  the  neighborhood  of  some  large  angel, 


130*  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

and  at  the  same  time  the  tragedy  of  being 
alive  overswept  her.  For  one's  duty  is 
never  all  done ;  or  when  we  have  accom- 
plished it  with  painstaking  care,  we  are 
smitten  through  with  finding  that  the 
greater  things  have  passed  us  by. 

The  tide  carried  the  boats  near  the  great 
wall  of  rock.  Woods  made  denser  shade 
on  the  background  of  night.  The  cautious 
murmur  of  the  speaker  was  cut  short. 

"  Who  goes  there  ? "  came  the  sharp 
challenge  of  a  French  sentry. 

The  soldiers  were  silent  as  dead  men. 

"  France  !  "  answered  Colonel  Fraser  in 
the  same  language. 

"  Of  what  regiment  ?  " 

"  The  Queen's." 

The  sentry  was  satisfied.  To  the  Queen's 
regiment,  stationed  at  Cap  Rouge,  belonged 
the  duty  of  convoying  provisions  down  to 
Quebec.  He  did  not  further  peril  what  he 
believed  to  be  a  French  transjjort  by  asking 
for  the  password. 

Jeannette    breathed.     So    low    had    she 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  131 

sunk  that  she  would  have  used  her  language 
Jierself  to  get  the  Highland  colonel  past 
danger. 

It  was  fortunate  for  his  general  that  he 
had  the  accent  and  readiness  of  a  French- 
man. Again  they  were  challenged.  They 
could  see  another  sentry  running  parallel 
with  their  course. 

"  Provision  boats,"  this  time  answered 
the  Highlander.  "  Don't  make  a  noise. 
The  English  will  hear  us." 

That  hint  was  enough,  for  an  English 
sloop  of  war  lay  within  sound  of  their 
voices. 

With  the  swift  tide  the  boats  shot  around 
a  headland,  and  here  was  a  cove  in  the  huge 
precipice,  clothed  with  sere  herbage  and 
hushes  and  a  few  trees ;  steep,  with  the  hint 
of  a  once-used  path  across  it,  but  a  little 
less  perpendicular  than  the  rest  of  the  rock. 
No  sentinel  was  stationed  at  this  place. 

The  world  was  just  beginning  to  come 
out  of  positive  shadow  into  the  indistinct- 
ness of   dawn.     Current  and   tide  were  so 


132  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

strong  that  the  boats  could  not  be  steered 
directly  to  shore,  but  on  the  alluvial  strip 
at  the  base  of  this  cove  they  beached  them- 
selves  with    such    success    as    they   could. 
Twenty-four  men  sprung  out  and  ran  to  the 
ascent.      Their   muskets   were   slung   upon 
their  backs.     A   humid   look   was   coming 
upon  the   earth,  and   blurs  were   over  the 
fading  stars.     The  climbers  separated,  each 
making  his  own  way  from  point  to  point  of 
the  slippery  cliff,  and  swarms  followed  them 
as  boat  after  boat  discharged  its  load.     The 
cove  by  which  he  breached  the  stronghold 
of  this  continent,  and  which  was  from  that 
day  to  bear  his  name,  cast  its  shadow  on  the 
gaunt,  upturned  face  of  Wolfe.     He  waited 
while  the  troops  in  whom  he  put  his  trust, 
with  knotted  muscles  and  panting  breasts, 
lifted    themselves   to   the   top.     No   orders 
were   spoken.      Wolfe   had   issued   instruc- 
tions  the   night   before,   and   England  ex- 
pected every  man  to  do  his  duty. 

There  was  not  enough  light  to  show  how 
Canada  was  taken.     Jeannette  Descheneaux 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  133 

stepped  on  the  sand,  and  the  single  thought 
which  took  shape  in  her  mind  was  that 
she  must  scale  that  ascent  if  the  English 
scaled  it. 

The  hope  of  escape  to  her  own  people 
did  not  animate  her  labor.  She  had  no 
hope  of  any  sort.  She  felt  only  present 
necessity,  which  was  to  climb  where  the 
Iliirhland  officer  climbed.  He  was  in  front 
of  '  3r,  and  took  no  notice  of  her  until  they 
reached  a  slippery  wall  where  there  were  no 
bushes.  There  he  turned  and  caught  her 
by  the  wrist,  drawing  her  up  after  him. 
Their  faces  came  near  together  in  the 
swimming  vapors  of  dawn.  He  had  the 
bright  look  of  determination.  His  eyes 
shone.  He  was  about  to  burst  into  the 
man's  arena  of  glory.  The  woman,  whom 
he  drew  up  because  she  was  a  woman,  and 
because  he  regretted  having  taken  her 
prisoner,  had  the  pallid  look  of  a  victim. 
Her  tragic  black  eyes  and  brows,  and  the 
hairs  clinging  in  untidy  threads  about  her 
haggard  cheeks  instead  of  curling  up  with 


13'4  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

the  (lamp  as  the  Iliglilandinan's  fleece  in- 
clined to  do,  worked  an  instant's  compas- 
sion in  him.  But  his  business  was  not  the 
squiring  of  angular  Frenchwomen.  Shots 
were  heard  at  the  top  of  tlie  rock,  a  tram- 
pling rush,  and  then  exulting  shouts.  The 
English  had  taken  Vergor's  camp. 

The  hand  was  gone  from  Jeannette's 
wrist,  —  the  hand  which  gave  her  such  rap- 
ture and  such  pain  by  its  firm  fraternal 
grip.  Colonel  Fraser  leaped  to  the  plain, 
and  was  in  the  midst  of  the  skirmish. 
Cannon  spoke,  like  thunder  rolling  across 
one's  head.  A  battery  guarded  by  the  sen- 
tinels they  had  passed  was  aroused,  and 
must  be  silenced.  The  whole  face  of  the 
cliff  suddenly  bloomed  with  scarlet  uni- 
forms.  All  the  men  remaining  in  the  boats 
went  up  as  fire  sweeps  when  carried  by  the 
wind.  Nothing  could  restrain  them.  They 
smelled  gunpowder  and  heard  the  noise  of 
victory,  and  would  have  stormed  heaven  at 
that  instant.  They  surrounded  Jeannette 
without   seeing  her,  every  man  looking  up 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  135 

to  the  heights  of  gh)ry,  and  passed  her  in 
fierce  and  panting  emulation. 

Jeannette  leaned  against  the  rough  side 
of  Wolfe's  Cove.  On  the  inner  surface  of 
her  eyelids  she  could  see  again  the  image  of 
the  llighlandman  stooping  to  help  her,  his 
muscular  legs  and  neck  showing  like  a 
young  god's  in  the  early  light.  There  she 
lost  him,  for  he  forgot  her.  The  passion  of 
women  whom  nature  has  made  unfeminine, 
and  who  are  too  honest  to  stoop  to  arts,  is 
one  of  the  tragedies  of  the  world. 

Daylight  broke  reluctantly,  with  clouds 
mustering  from  the  inverted  deep  of  the 
sky.  A  few  drops  of  rain  sprinkled  the 
British  uniforms  as  battalions  were  formed. 
The  battery  which  gave  the  first  intimation 
of  danger  to  the  French  general,  on  the 
other  side  of  Quebec,  had  been  taken  and 
silenced.  Wolfe  and  his  officers  hurried  up 
the  high  plateau  and  chose  their  ground. 
Then  the  troops  advanced,  marching  by 
files,  Highland  bagpipes  screaming  and 
droning,    the    earth    reverberating   with    a 


13G  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

measured  tread.  As  they  moved  toward 
Quebec  they  wheeled  to  form  their  line  of 
battle,  in  ranks  three  deep,  and  stretched 
across  the  plain.  The  city  was  scarcely  a 
mile  away,  but  a  ridge  of  ground  still  hid 
it  from  sight. 

From  her  hiding-place  in  one  of  the 
empty  houses  behind  Vergor's  tents,  Jean- 
nette  Descheneaux  watched  the  scarlet 
backs  and  the  tartans  of  the  Highlanders 
grow  smaller.  She  could  also  see  the  pris- 
oners that  were  taken  standing  under  guard. 
As  for  herself,  she  felt  that  she  had  no 
longer  a  visible  presence,  so  easy  had  it 
been  for  her  to  move  among  swarms  of  men 
and  escape  in  darkness.  She  never  had 
favored  her  body  with  soft  usage,  but  it 
trembled  now  in  every  part  from  muscular 
strain.  She  was  probably  cold  and  hungry, 
but  her  poignant  sensation  was  that  she  had 
no  friends.  It  did  not  matter  to  Jeannette 
that  history  was  being  made  before  her,  and 
one  of  the  great  battles  of  the  world  was 
about  to  be  fought.     It  only  mattered  that 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  137 

she  should  discern  the  Fraser  i)laid  as  far 
as  eye  coidd  follow  it.  Tliere  is  no  more 
piteous  thing-  than  for  one  human  being  to 
he  overpowered  by  the  god  in  another. 

She  sat  on  the  ground  in  the  unfloored 
hut,  watching  through  broken  chinking. 
There  was  a  back  door  as  well  as  a  front 
door,  hung  on  wooden  hinges,  and  she  had 
pinned  the  front  door  as  she  came  in. 
The  opening  of  the  back  door  made  Jean- 
nette  turn  her  head,  though  with  little 
interest  in  the  comer.  It  was  a  boy,  with 
a  streak  of  blood  down  his  face  and  neck, 
and  his  clothes  stained  by  the  weather.  He 
had  no  hat  on,  and  one  of  his  shoes  was 
missing.  He  put  himself  at  Jeannette's 
side  without  any  hesitation,  and  joined  her 
watch  through  the  broken  chinking.  A 
tear  and  a  drop  of  scarlet  raced  down  his 
cheek,  uniting  as  they  dripped  from  his 
chin. 

"  Have  you  been  wounded  ?  "  inquired 
Jeannette. 

"  It  is  n't  the  wound,"  he  answered,  "  but 


138  WOLFE  8  COVE. 

that  Captain  Vcrgoi-  has  let  them  take  the 
heights.  I  heard  something  myself,  and 
tried  to  wake  him.  The  pig  turned  over 
and  went  to  sleep  again." 

"  Let  me  tie  it  up,"  said  Jeannette. 

"He  is  shot  in  the  heel  and  taken  pris- 
oner. I  wish  he  had  been  shot  in  the  heart. 
lie  hopped  out  of  bed  and  ran  away  when 
the  English  fired  on  his  tent.  I  have  been 
trying  to  get  past  their  lines  to  run  to 
General  Montcalm ;  but  they  are  every- 
where," declared  the  boy,  his  chin  shaking 
and  his  breast  swelling  with  grief. 

Jeannette  turned  her  back  on  him,  and 
found  some  linen  about  her  person  which 
she  could  tear.  She  made  a  bandage  for 
his  head.  It  comforted  her  to  take  hold  of 
the  little  fellow  and  part  his  clotted  hair. 

"The  skin  of  my  head  is  torn,"  he 
admitted,  while  suffering  the  attempted 
surgery.  "If  I  had  been  taller,  the  bullet 
might  have  killed  me ;  and  I  would  rather 
be  killed  than  see  the  English  on  this  rock, 
marching  to  take  Quebec.     What  will  my 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  139 

father  say?  I  am  aHliuniud  to  look  liini  in 
tho  face  and  own  I  slept  in  the  camp  of 
Vcrgor  last  night.  The  Le  Moynos  and 
Keptuitignys  never  let  enemies  get  past 
them  before.  And  I  know  that  man  was 
not  keeping  watch;  he  did  not  set  any 
sentry.'' 

"  Is  it  painful  ? "  she  inquired,  wiping 
tlio  bloody  cut,  which  still  welled  forth 
along  its  channel. 

The  boy  lifted  his  brimming  eyes,  and 
answered  her  from  his  deeper  hurt :  — 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I  think  my 
father  would  make  for  General  Montcalm's 
camp  if  he  were  alone  and  could  not  attack 
the  enemy's  rear;  for  something  ought  to 
be  done  as  quickly  as  possible." 

Jeannette  bandaged  his  head,  the  rain 
8})attering  through  the  broken  log  house 
upon  them  both. 

"Who  brought  you  here?"  inquired 
Jacques.  "There  was  nobody  in  these 
houses  last  night,  for  I  searched  them  my- 
self." 


140  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

"  I  liid  lu'i'c  before  daybreak,"  hIio  an- 
swered bricHy. 

*'  But  if  you  knew  the  KugliHli  were 
coming,  why  did  you  not  give  the  alarm  ?  " 

*'  I  was  their  prisoner." 

"  And  where  will  you  go  now?  " 

She  looked  towards  the  Plains  of  Abra- 
ham and  said  nothing.  The  open  ehink 
showed  Wolfe's  six  battalions  of  scarlet 
lines  moving  forward  or  i)ausing,  and  the 
ridge  above  them  thronging  with  white 
uniforms. 

*'  If  yon  will  trust  yourself  to  me,  nia- 
moiselle,"  proposed  Jacques,  who  considered 
that  it  was  not  the  part  of  a  soldier  or  a 
gentleman  to  leave  any  woman  alone  in  this 
hut  to  take  the  chances  of  battle,  and  i)ar- 
ticularly  a  woman  who  had  bound  up  his 
head,  "  I  will  do  my  best  to  help  you  in- 
side the  French  lines." 

The  singula!"  woman  did  not  reply  to  him, 
but  continued  looking  through  the  chink. 
Skirmishers  were  out.  Puffs  of  smoke 
from   cornfields   and   knolls   showed    where 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  141 

(':iii:uliiins  and  Iiuliuiis  hid,  creeping  to  tho 
Hank  of  tho  enemy. 

Jacciues  stooped  down  liimsolf,  und 
stnick  his  hands  together  at  these  sights. 

''  Monsienr  de  Monteahn  is  awake,  niade- 
inoiselle  !  And  see  our  sharpshooters  ])i(rk- 
ing  them  off !  We  ean  easily  run  inside 
the  French  lines  now.  These  English  will 
soon  be  tumbled  back  the  way  they  came 
up." 

In  another  hour  the  group  of  houses 
WHS  a  roaring  furnace.  A  detachment  of 
English  light  infantry,  wheeled  to  drive  out 
the  bushfighters,  had  lost  and  retaken  it 
many  times,  and  neither  party  gave  up  the 
ready  fortress  until  it  was  set  on  fire. 
Crumbling  red  logs  hissed  in  the  thin  rain, 
and  smoke  spread  from  them  across  the 
sodden  ground  where  Wolfe  moved.  The 
sluk  man  had  become  an  invincible  spirit. 
He  flew  along  the  ranks,  waving  his  sword, 
the  sleeve  falling  away  from  his  thin  arm. 
The  great  soldier  had  thrown  himself  on 
this  venture  without  a  chance  of  retreat,  but 


142  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

every  risk  had  been  thought  of  and  met. 
He  had  a  battalion  guarding  the  landing. 
He  had  a  force  far  in  the  rear  to  watch  the 
motions  of  the  French  at  Cap  Rouge.  By 
the  arrangement  of  his  front  he  had  taken 
precautions  against  being  outflanked.  And 
he  knew  his  army  was  with  him  to  a  man. 
But  Montcalm  rode  up  to  meet  him  ham- 
pered by  insubordinate  confusion. 

Jeannette  Descheneaux,  carried  along, 
with  the  boy,  by  Canadians  and  Indians 
from  the  English  rear  to  the  Cote  Ste. 
Genevieve,  lay  dazed  in  the  withered  grass 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  action  whicli 
decided  her  people's  hold  on  the  New 
World.  The  ground  resounded  like  a  drum 
with  measured  treading.  The  blaze  and 
crash  of  musketry  and  cannon  blinded  and 
deafened  her ;  but  when  she  lifted  her  head 
from  t}\e  .\ock  of  the  first  charge,  the  most 
instantaneous  and  shameful  panic  that  ever 
seized  a  French  army  had  already  begun. 
The  skirmishers  in  the  bushes  could  not 
understand  it.     Smoke  parted,  and  she  saw 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  143 

the  white-and-golcl  French  general  trying  to 
drive  his  men  back.  But  they  evaded  the 
horses  of  officers. 

Jacques  rose,  with  the  Canadians  and 
Indians,  to  his  knees.  He  had  a  musket. 
Jeannette  rose,  also,  as  the  Highlanders 
came  sweeping  on  in  pursuit.  She  had 
scarcely  been  a  woman  to  the  bushfighters. 
They  were  too  eager  in  their  aim  to  glance 
aside  at  a  rawboned  camp  follower  in  a  wet 
shawl.  Neither  did  the  Highlanders  distin- 
guish from  other  Canadian  heads  the  one 
with  a  woman's  braids  and  a  faint  shadow- 
ing of  hair  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth. 
Tliay  came  on  without  suspecting  an  am- 
bush, and  she  heard  their  strange  cries  — 
"  Cath-Shairm  !  "  and  "  Caisteal  Duna !  "  — 
when  the  shock  of  a  volley  stopped  the 
streaming  tartans.  She  saw  the  play  of 
surprise  and  fury  in  those  mountaineer 
faces.  They  threw  down  their  muskets, 
and  turned  on  the  ambushed  Canadians, 
short  sword  in  hand. 

Never  did  knight  receive  the  blow  of  the 


144  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

accolade  as  that  crouching  woman  took  a 
iTighland  knife  in  her  breast.  For  one 
breath  she  grasped  the  back  of  it  with  both 
hands,  and  her  rapt  eyes  met  the  horrified 
eyes  of  Colonel  Fraser.  He  withdrew  the 
weapon,  standing  defenseless,  and  a  ball 
struck  him,  cutting  the  blood  across  his 
arm,  and  again  he  was  lost  in  the  fury  of 
battle,  while  Jeannette  felt  herself  dragged 
down  the  slope. 

She  resisted.  She  heard  a  boy's  voice 
pleading  with  her,  but  she  got  up  and  tried 
to  go  back  to  the  spot  from  which  she  had 
been  dragged.  The  Canadians  and  Indians 
were  holding  their  ground.  She  heard  their 
muskets,  but  they  were  far  behind  her,  and 
the  great  rout  caught  her  and  whirled  her. 
Officers  on  their  horses  were  borne  strug- 
gling along  in  it.  She  fell  down  and  was 
trampled  on,  but  something  heljied  her  up. 

The  flood  of  men  poured  along  the  front 
of  the  ramparts  and  down  to  the  bridge  of 
boats  on  the  St.  Charles,  or  into  the  city 
walls  through  the  St.  Louis  and  St.  John 
gates. 


I 


WOLFE'S  COVE.  146 

To  Jeannette  the  world  was  far  away. 
Yet  she  found  it  once  more  close  at  hand, 
as  she  stood  with  her  back  against  the  lofty 
inner  wall.  The  mad  crowd  had  passed, 
and  gone  shouting  down  the  narrow  streets. 
But  the  St.  Louis  gate  was  still  choked  with 
fugitives  when  Montcalm  appeared,  reeling 
on  his  horse,  supported  by  a  soldier  on  each 
side.  His  white  uniform  was  stained  on 
the  breast,  and  blood  dripped  from  the  sad- 
dle. Jeannette  heard  the  piercing  cry  of  a 
little  girl :  "  Oh  heavens !  Oh  heavens ! 
The  marquis  is  killed !  "  And  she  heard 
the  fainting  general  gasp,  "  It  is  nothing, 
it  is  nothing.  Don't  be  troubled  for  me, 
my  children." 

She  knew  how  he  felt  as  he  was  led  by. 
The  indistinctness  of  the  opposite  wall, 
which  widened  from  the  gate,  was  astonish- 
ing. And  she  was  troubled  by  the  same 
little  boy  whose  head  she  had  tied  up  in  the 
log  house.  Jeannette  looked  obliquely  down 
at  him  as  she  braced  herself  with  chill  fin- 
gers, and  discerned  that  he  was  claimed  by 


146  WOLFE'S  COVE. 

a  weeping  little  girl  to  whom  he  yet  paid 
no  attention. 

"  Let  me  help  you,  mademoiselle,"  he 
urged,  troubling  her. 

"  Go  away,"  said  Jeannette. 

"  But,  mademoiselle,  you  have  been  badly 
hurt." 

"  Go  away,"  said  Jeannette,  and  her  limbs 
began  to  settle.  She  thought  of  smiling  at 
the  children,  but  her  features  were  already 
cast.  The  English  child  held  her  on  one 
side,  and  the  French  child  on  the  other,  as 
she  collapsed  in  a  sitting  posture.  Tender 
nuns,  going  from  friend  to  foe,  would  find 
this  stoical  face  against  the  wall.  It  was 
no  strange  sight  then.     Canada  was  taken. 

Men  with  bloody  faces  were  already  run- 
ning with  barricades  for  the  gates.  Wail- 
ing for  Montcalm  could  be  heard. 

The  boy  put  his  arm  around  the  girl  and 
turned  her  eyes  away.  They  ran  together 
up  towards  the  citadel :  England  and  France 
with  their  hands  locked;  young  Canada 
weeping,  but  having  a  future. 


THE  WINDIGO. 

The  cry  of  those  rapids  in  Ste.  Marie's 
River  called  the  Sault  could  be  heard  at 
all  hours  through  the  settlement  on  the  ris- 
ing shore  and  into  the  forest  beyond.  Three 
quarters  of  a  mile  of  frothing  billows,  like 
some  colossal  instrument,  never  ceased  play- 
ing music  down  an  inclined  channel  until 
the  trance  of  winter  locked  it  up.  At  Au- 
gust dusk,  when  all  that  shaggy  world  was 
sinking  to  darkness,  the  gushing  monotone 
became  very  distinct. 

Louizon  Cadotte  and  his  father's  young 
seignior,  Jacques  de  Repentigny,  stepped 
from  a  birch  canoe  on  the  bank  near  the 
fort,  two  Chippewa  Indians  following  with 
their  game.  Hunting  furnished  no  small 
addition  to  the  food  supply  of  the  settle- 
ment, for  the  English  conquest  had  brought 
about  scarcity  at  this  as  well  as  other  West- 


148  THE  WINDIGO, 

ern  posts.  Peace  was  declared  in  Europe ; 
but  soldiers  on  the  frontier,  waiting  orders 
to  march  out  at  any  time,  were  not  abun- 
dantly supplied  with  stores,  and  they  let  sea- 
son after  season  go  by,  reluctant  to  put  in 
harvests  which  might  be  reaped  by  their 
successors. 

Jacques  was  barely  nineteen,  and  Loui- 
zon  was  considerably  older.  But  the  Re- 
pentignys  had  gone  back  to  France  after 
the  fall  of  Quebec  ;  and  five  years  of  Euro- 
pean life  had  matured  the  young  seignior  as 
decades  of  border  experience  would  never 
mature  his  half-breed  tenant.  Yet  Louizon 
was  a  fine  dark-skinned  fellow,  well  made 
for  one  of  short  stature.  He  trod  close  by 
his  tall  superior  with  visible  fondness ;  en- 
joying this  spectacle  of  a  man  the  like  of 
whom  he  had  not  seen  on  the  frontier. 

Jacques  looked  back,  as  he  walked,  at  the 
long  zigzag  shadows  on  the  river.  Forest 
fire  in  the  distance  showed  a  leaning  col- 
umn, black  at  base,  pearl-colored  in  the 
primrose  air,  like  smoke  from  some  gigantic 


THE   WINDIGO.  149 

altar.  He  had  seen  islands  in  the  lake 
under  which  the  sky  seemed  to  slip,  throw- 
ing them  above  the  horizon  in  mirage,  and 
trees  standing  like  detached  bushes  on  a 
world  rim  of  water.  The  8te.  Marie  River 
was  a  beautifid  light  green  in  color,  and 
sunset  and  twilight  played  ui)on  it  all  the 
miracles  of  change. 

"  I  wish  my  father  had  never  left  this 
country,"  said  young  Repentigny,  feeling 
that  spell  cast  by  the  wilderness.  "  Here 
is  his  place.  He  should  have  withdrawn  to 
the  Sault,  and  accommodated  himself  to  the 
English,  instead  of  returning  to  France. 
The  service  in  other  parts  of  the  world  does 
not  suit  him.  Plenty  of  good  men  have 
held  to  Canada  and  their  honor  also." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  assented  Louizon.  "  The 
English  cannot  be  got  rid  of.  For  my 
part,  I  shall  be  glad  when  this  post  changes 
hands.     I  am  sick  of  our  officers." 

He  scowled  with  open  resentment.  The 
seigniory  house  faced  the  parade  ground, 
and  they  could   see   against  its   large   low 


150  THE  WINDIGO. 

mass,  lounging  on  the  gallery,  one  each 
side  of  a  window,  the  white  uniforms  of 
two  French  soldiers.  The  window  sashes, 
screened  by  small  curtains  across  the  mid- 
dle, were  swung  into  the  room  ;  and  Loui- 
zon's  wife  leaned  on  her  elhows  across  the 
sill,  the  rosy  atmosphere  of  his  own  fire  pro- 
jecting to  view  every  ring  of  her  bewitching 
hair,  and  even  her  long  eyelashes  as  slie 
turned  her  gaze  from  side  to  side. 

It  was  so  dark,  and  the  object  of  their 
regard  was  so  bright,  that  these  buzzing 
bees  of  Frenchmen  did  not  see  her  husband 
until  he  ran  up  the  steps  facing  them.  Both 
of  them  greeted  him  heartily.  He  felt  it  a 
peculiar  indignity  that  his  wife''s  danglers 
forever  passed  their  good-will  on  to  him ; 
and  he  left  them  in  the  common  hall,  with 
his  father  and  the  young  seignior,  and  the 
two  or  three  Indians  who  congregated  there 
every  evening  to  ask  for  presents  or  to 
smoke. 

Louizon's  wife  met  him  in  the  middle  of 
the  broad  low  apartment  where  he  had  been 


THE  \V INDIGO,  151 

so  proud  to  introduce  her  as  a  bride,  and 
turned  her  cheek  to  be  kissed.  She  was  not 
fond  of  having  her  lips  touched.  Her  hazel- 
colored  hair  was  perfumed.  She  was  so 
supple  and  exquisite,  so  dimpled  and  aggra- 
vating, that  the  Chippewa  in  him  longed  to 
take  her  by  the  scalp-lock  of  her  light  head  ; 
but  the  Frenchman  bestowed  the  salute. 
Louizon  had  married  the  prettiest  woman  in 
the  settlement.  Life  overflowed  in  her,  so 
tliat  her  presence  spread  animation.  Both 
men  and  women  paid  homage  to  her.  Her 
very  mother-in-law  was  her  slave.  And  this 
was  the  stranger  spectacle  because  Madame 
Cadotte  the  senior,  though  born  a  Chip- 
pewa, did  not  easily  make  herself  subser- 
vient to  anybody. 

The  time  had  been  when  Louizon  was 
proud  of  any  notice  this  siren  conferred  on 
liim.  But  so  exacting  and  tyrannical  is  the 
nature  of  man  that  when  he  got  her  he 
wanted  to  keep  her  entirely  to  himself. 
From  his  Chippewa  mother,  who,  though 
treated  with  deference,  had  never  dared  to 


152  T7TE  WTNDTGO. 

disobey  his  fiither,  he  inherited  a  fond  and 
jealouH  nature ;  and  his  beautiful  wife 
chafed  it.  Youn^-  Re|)enti<^ny  saw  that  she 
was  like  a  Parisian.  But  Louizon  felt  that 
she  was  a  s})irit  too  fine  and  tantalizing  for 
him  to  grasp,  and  she  had  him  in  her 
j)Ower. 

He  hung  his  })owderh()rn  behind  the  door, 
and  stepped  upon  a  stool  to  put  his  gun  on 
its  rack  above  the  fireplace.  Tlie  fire 
shovv(Hl  his  round  figure,  short  but  well 
muscled,  and  the  boyish  petulance  of  his 
shaven  lip.  The  sun  shone  hot  upon  tlie 
Sault  of  an  August  noon,  but  morning  and 
night  were  cool,  and  a  blaze  was  usually 
kept  in  the  chinniey. 

"You  found  plenty  of  game?"  said  his 
wife  ;  and  it  was  one  of  this  woman's  wick- 
edest charms  that  she  could  be  so  interested 
in  her  comjjanion  of  the  moment. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  scowling  more,  and 
thinking  of  the  brace  on  the  gallery  whom 
he  had  not  shot,  but  wished  to. 

She  laughed  at  him. 


TJIK   WINDIQO.  153 

"  Archiingc  C'jidottc,"  said  Louizon,  turn- 
ing around  on  tho  Htool  before  he  deseended ; 
and  nhe  .spread  out  her  skirts,  taking  two 
(Uuicing  Htei)s  to  indicate  that  she  heard 
him.  "How  h)ng  am  I  to  he  mortified  by 
your  conduct  to  Monsieur  de  Repentigny  ?  '* 

*'0h — IVIonsieur  do  Repentigny.  It  is 
now  that  boy  from  France,  at  wliom  I  have 
never  looked." 

"  The  man  T  wouhl  have  you  look  at,  ma- 
dame,  you  scarcely  notice." 

"  Why  should  I  notice  him  ?  He  pays 
little  attention  to  me." 

"  Ah,  he  is  not  one  of  your  danglers, 
niadame.  He  would  not  look  at  another 
man's  wife.     He  has  had  trouble  himself." 

"  So  will  you  have  if  you  scorch  the 
backs  of  your  legs,"  observed  Archange. 

Louizon  stood  obstinately  on  the  stool 
and  ignored  the  heat.  He  was  in  the  act  of 
stepping  down,  but  he  checked  it  as  she 
spoke. 

"  Monsieur  de  Repentigny  came  back  to 
this  country  to  marry  a  young  English  lady 


154  THE  wiNViao. 

of    (iuobec.       He    thinks    of  her,    not    of 

you." 

"  I  am  Huro  ho  is  welcome,"  murmured' 
Arehange.  ''  But  it  seems  the  young  Eng- 
lish liuly  prefers  to  stay  in  (Juebee." 

"  She  never  looked  at  aUy  other  nuui,  ma- 
dame.     She  is  dead." 

''  No  wonder.  1  should  he  dead,  too,  if  I 
had  looked  at  one  stupid  man  all  my  life." 

Louizon's  eyes  sparkled.  ''Madame,  1 
will  have  you  know  that  the  seignior  of 
Sault  Ste.  Marie  is  entitled  to  your  hom- 
age." 

"  Monsieur,  I  will  have  you  know  that  1 
do  not  pay  honuige  to  any  man." 

*'You,  Arehange  Cadotte?  You  are  in 
love  with  a  new  nuin  every  day." 

"  Not  in  the  least,  monsieur.  I  only  de- 
sire to  have   a  new  man  in  love  with  mc 

every  day." 

Her  mischievous  mouth  was  a  scarlet 
button  in  her  face,  and  Louizon  leaped  to 
the  floor,  and  kicked  the  stool  across  the 
room. 


TUE  wiNDiao.  155 

"  The  devil  liIiiiHt'lf  in  no  tnatcli  at  nil  for 
you! 

•  "  But  I  married  him  before  I  knew  that,*' 
returned  Arcliango ;  and  Louizon  grinned 
in  his  wrath. 

"  I  don't  like  such  women." 

*'  Oh  yes,  you  do.  Men  always  like 
women  whom  they  cannot  chain." 

"  I  have  never  tried  to  chain  you."  Her 
luiHband  approached,  shaking  his  finger  at 
her.  "  There  is  not  another  woman  in  the 
settlement  who  luis  her  way  as  you  have. 
And  see  how  you  treat  me  !  '* 

"How  do  I  treat  you?"  inquired  Arcli- 
ange,  sitting  down  and  resigning  herself  to 
statistics. 

"  Ste.  Marie  I  St.  Joseph !  "  shouted  the 
Frenchman.  "  How  does  she  treat  me  I 
And  every  man  in  the  seigniory  dangling 
at  her  apron  string  !  " 

"  You  are  mistaken.  There  is  the  young 
seignior ;  and  there  is  the  new  English 
commandant,  who  must  be  now  within  the 
seigniory,  for  they  expect  him  at  the  post 


156  THE  WINDIGO. 

to-morrow  morning.  It  is  all  the  same :  if 
I  look  at  a  man  you  are  furious,  and  if  1 
refuse  to  look  at  him  you  are  more  furious 

still." 

Louizon  felt  that  inward  breaking  up 
which  i^roved  to  him  that  he  rould  not 
stand  before  the  tongue  of  this  woman. 
Groping  for  expression,  he  declared, — 

"If  thou  wert  sickly  or  blind,  I  would 
be  just  as  good  to  thee  as  when  thou  wert  a 
bride.  I  am  not  the  kind  that  changes  if 
a  woman  loses  her  fine  looks." 

"  No  doubt  you  would  like  to  see  me  with 
the  smallpox,"  suggested  Archange.  "  But 
it  is  never  best  to  try  a  man  too  far." 

"You  try  me  too  far,  — let  me  tell  you 
that.     But  you  shall  try  me  no  further." 

The  Indian  appeared  distinctly  on  his 
softer  French  features,  as  one  picture  may 
be  stamped  over  another. 

"Smoke  a  pipe,  Louizon,"  urged  the 
thorn  in  his  flesh.  "  You  are  always  so 
much  more  agreeable  when  your  mouth  is 
stopped." 


THE  WIN  DIG  O.  157 

But  he  left  the  room  without  looking  at 
her  again.  Archange  remarked  to  herself 
tliat  he  would  be  better  natured  when  his 
mother  had  given  him  his  supper ;  and  she 
yawned,  smiling  at  the  maladroit  creatures 
whom  she  made  her  sport.  Her  husband 
was  the  best  young  man  in  the  settlement. 
She  was  entirely  satisfied  with  him,  and 
grateful  to  him  for  taking  the  orphan 
niece  of  a  poor  post  commandant,  without 
prospects  since  the  conquest,  and  giving 
her  sumptuous  quarters  and  comparative 
wealth;  but  she  could  not  forbear  amusing 
herself  with  his  masculine  weaknesses. 

Archange  was  by  no  means  a  slave  in  the 
frontier  household.  She  did  not  spin,  or 
draw  water,  or  tend  the  oven.  Her  mother- 
in-law,  Madame  Cadotte,  had  a  hold  on  pe- 
rennially destitute  Chippewa  women  who 
could  be  made  to  work  for  longer  or  shorter 
periods  in  a  Frenchman's  kitchen  or  loom- 
house  instead  of  with  savage  implements. 
Archange's  bed  had  ruffled  curtains,  and 
her  pretty  dresses,  carefully  folded,  filled 
a  large  chest. 


158  THE  WINDIGO. 

She  returned  to  the  high  window  sill, 
and  watched  the  purple  distances  growing 
black.  She  could  smell  the  tobacco  the 
men  were  smoking  in  the  open  hall,  and 
hear  their  voices.  Archange  knew  what 
her  mother-in-law  was  giving  the  young 
seignior  and  Louizon  for  their  supper. 
She  could  fancy  the  officers  laying  down 
their  pipes  to  draw  to  the  board,  also,  for 
the  Cadottes  kept  open  house  all  the  year 
round. 

The  thump  of  the  Indian  drum  was  added 
to  the  deep  melody  of  the  rapids.  There 
were  always  a  few  lodges  of  Chippewas 
about  the  Sault.  When  the  trapping  sea- 
son and  the  maple-sugar  making  were  over 
and  his  profits  drunk  up,  time  was  the  lar- 
gest possession  of  an  Indian.  He  spent  it 
around  the  door  of  his  French  brother, 
ready  to  fish  or  to  drink  whenever  invited. 
If  no  one  cared  to  go  on  the  river,  he 
turned  to  his  hereditary  amusements. 
Every  night  that  the  rapids  were  void  of 
torches  showing  where  the  canoes  of  white 


THE  WINDIGO.  159 

fishers  darted,  the  thump  of  the  Indian 
drum  and  the  yell  of  Indian  dancers  could 
be  heard. 

Archange's  mind  was  rimning  on  the 
new  English  garrison  who  were  said  to  be 
so  near  taking  possession  of  the  picketed 
fort,  when  she  saw  something  red  on  the 
parade  ground.  The  figure  stood  erect 
and  motionless,  gathering  all  the  remain- 
ing light  on  its  indistinct  coloring,  and 
Archange's  heart  gave  a  leap  at  the  hint  of 
a  military  man  in  a  red  uniform.  She  was 
all  alive,  like  a  whitefisher  casting  the  net  or 
a  hunter  sighting  game.  It  was  Archange's 
nature,  without  even  taking  thought,  to  turn 
her  head  on  her  round  neck  so  that  the  illu- 
minated curls  would  show  against  i^  back- 
ground of  wall,  and  wreathe  her  half-bare 
arms  across  the  sill.  To  be  looked  at,  to 
lure  and  tantalize,  was  more  than  pastime. 
It  was  a  woman's  chief  privilege.  Arch- 
ange  held  the  secret  conviction  that  the 
priest  himself  could  be  made  to  give  her 
lighter  penances  by  an  angelic    expression 


160  THE  WINDIGO. 

she  could  assume.  It  is  convenient  to  have 
large  brown  eyes  and  the  trick  of  casting 
them  sidewise  in  sweet  distress. 

But  the  Chippewa  widow  came  in  earlier 
than  usual  that  evening,  being  anxious  to 
go  back  to  the  lodges  to  watch  the  dancing. 
Archange  pushed  the  sashes  shut,  ready  for 
other  diversion,  and  Michel  Pensonneau 
never  failed  to  furnish  her  that.  The  little 
boy  was  at  the  widow's  heels.  Michel  was 
an  orphan. 

"  If  Archange  had  children,"  Madame 
Cadotte  had  said  to  Louizon,  "  she  would 
not  seek  other  amusement.  Take  the  little 
Pensonneau  lad  that  his  grandmother  can 
hardly  feed.  He  will  give  Archange  some- 
thing to  do." 

So  Louizon  brought  home  the  little  Pen- 
sonneau lad.  Archange  looked  at  him,  and 
considered  that  here  was  another  person  to 
wait  on  her.  As  to  keeping  him  clean  and 
making  clothes  for  him,  they  might  as  well 
have  expected  her  to  train  the  sledge  dogs. 
She  made  him  serve  her,  but  for  mothering 


TUE   WINDIGO.  161 

he  had  to  go  to  Madiune  Cadotte.  Yet 
Arcihange  far  outweighed  Madame  Cadotte 
with  him.  The  hibors  put  upon  him  by 
the  autocrat  of  the  house  were  sweeter  than 
niococks  full  of  maple  sugar  from  the  hand 
of  the  Chippewa  housekeeper.  At  first 
Archange  would  not  let  him  come  into  her 
room.  She  dictated  to  him  through  door  or 
window.  But  when  he  grew  fat  with  good 
food  and  was  decently  clad  under  Madame 
Cadotte's  hand,  the  great  promotion  of  en- 
tering that  sacred  apartment  was  allowed 
him.  Michel  came  in  whenever  he  could. 
It  was  his  nightly  habit  to  follow  the  Chip- 
pewa widow  there  after  supper,  and  watch 
her  brush  Archange 's  hair. 

Michel  stood  at  the  end  of  the  hearth 
with  a  roll  of  pagessanung  or  plum-leather 
in  his  fist.  His  cheeks  had  a  hard  gar- 
nered redness  like  polished  apples.  The 
Chippewa  widow  set  her  husband  carefully 
against  the  wall.  The  husband  was  a  bun- 
dle about  two  feet  long,  containing  her  best 
clothes  tied  up  in  her  dead  warrior's  sashes 


162  THE  WINDIGO. 

and  rolled  in  a  piece  of  cloth.  His  arm- 
bands and  his  necklace  of  bear's-claws  ap- 
peared at  the  top  as  a  grotesque  head. 
This  bundle  the  widow  was  obliged  to  carry 
with  her  everywhere.  To  be  seen  without 
it  was  a  disgrace,  until  that  time  when 
her  husband's  nearest  relations  should  take 
it  away  from  her  and  give  her  new  clothes, 
thus  signifying  that  she  had  mourned  long 
enough  to  satisfy  them.  As  the  husband's 
relations  were  imable  to  cover  themselves, 
the  prospect  of  her  release  seemed  distant. 
For  her  food  she  was  glad  to  depend  on  her 
labor  in  the  Cadotte  household.  There  was 
no  hunter  to  supply  her  lodge  now. 

The  widow  let  down  Archange's  hair  and 
began  to  brush  it.  The  long  mass  was  too 
much  for  its  owner  to  handle.  It  spread 
around  her  like  a  garment,  as  she  sat  on 
her  chair,  and  its  ends  touched  the  floor. 
Michel  thought  there  was  nothing  more 
wonderful  in  the  world  than  this  glory  of 
hair,  its  rings  and  ripples  shining  in  the 
firelight.     The  widow's  jaws  worked  in  un- 


THE  WINDIGO.  163 

obtrusive  rumination  on  a  piece  of  pleas- 
antly bitter  fungus,  the  Indian  substitute 
for  quinine,  which  the  Chippewas  called 
waubudone.  As  she  consoled  herself  much 
with  this  medicine,  and  her  many-syllabled 
name  was  hard  to  pronounce,  Archange 
called  her  Waubudono,  an  offense  against 
her  dignity  which  the  widow  might  not 
have  endured  from  anybody  else,  though 
she  bore  it  without  a  word  from  this  soft- 
haired  magnate. 

As  she  carefully  carded  the  mass  of  hair 
lock  by  lock,  thinking  it  an  unnecessary 
nightly  labor,  the  restless  head  under  her 
liands  was  turned  towards  the  portable  hus- 
band. Archange  had  not  much  imaginar 
tion,  but  to  her  the  thing  was  uncanny. 
She  repeated  what  she  said  every  night ;  — 

"  Do  stand  him  in  the  hall  and  let  him 
smell  the  smoke,  Waubudone." 

"  No,"  refused  the  widow. 

"But  I  don't  want  him  in  my  bedroom. 
You  are  not  obliged  to  keep  that  thing  in 
your  sight  all  the  time." 


1G4  Tiii:  n  INDIGO. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  widow. 

A  dialect  of  mingled  French  and  Chip- 
pewa vvas  what  they  spoke,  and  Michel 
knew  enough  of  both  tongues  to  follow  the 
talk. 

"  Are  they  never  going  to  take  him  from 
you?  If  they  don't  take  him  from  you 
soon,  I  shall  go  to  the  lodges  and  speak  to 
his  people  about  it  myself." 

The  Chippewa  widow  usually  passed  over 
this  threat  in  silence ;  but,  threading  a  lock 
with  the  comb,  she  now  said,  — 

"  Best  not  go  to  the  lodges  awhile." 

"  Why  ? "  inquired  Archange.  "  Have 
the  English  already  arrived?  Is  the  tribe 
dissatisfied  ?  " 

"  Don't  know  that." 

"Then  why  should  I  not  go  to  the 
lodges  ?  " 

"  Windigo  at  the  Sault  now." 

Archange  wheeled  to  look  at  her  face. 
The  widow  was  unmoved.  She  was  little 
older  than  Archange,  but  her  features 
showed  a  stoical  harshness  in  the  firelight. 


THE  WINDIGO.  165 

Michel,  who  often  went  to  the  lodges, 
widened  his  month  and  forgot  to  fill  it  with 
plnm-leather.  There  wiis  no  sweet  which 
Michel  loved  as  he  did  this  confection  of 
wild  plums  and  maple  sugar  boiled  down 
and  spread  on  sheets  of  birch  bark. 
Madame  Cadotte  made  the  best  pagessa- 
muig  at  the  Sault. 

"Look  at  the  boy,"  laughed  Archange. 
"lie  will  not  want  to  go  to  the  lodges  any 
more  after  dark." 

The  widow  remarked,  noting  Michel's  fat 
legs  and  arms,  — 

"  Windigo  like  to  eat  him." 

"  I  would  kill  a  windigo,"  declared  Mi- 
chel, in  full  revolt. 

"Not  so  easy  to  kill  a  windigo.  Bad 
spirits  help  windigos.  If  man  kill  windigo 
and  not  tear  him  to  pieces,  he  come  to  life 
again." 

Archange  herself  shuddered  at  such  a 
tenacious  creature.  She  was  less  super- 
stitious than  the  Chippewa  woman,  but  the 
Northwest  had  its  human  terrors  as  dark  as 
the  shadow  of  witchcraft. 


166-  THE  WINDIGO. 

Though  a  Chippewa  was  bound  to  dip  his 
liand  in  the  war  kettle  and  tuste  the  flesh  of 
enemies  after  victory,  there  was  nothing  he 
considered  more  horrible  than  a  confirmed 
cannibal.  He  believed  that  a  person  who 
had  eaten  human  flesh  to  satisfy  hunger 
was  never  afterwards  contented  with  any 
other  kind,  and,  being  deranged  and  pos- 
sessed by  the  spirit  of  a  beast,  he  had  to  be 
killed  for  the  safety  of  the  community. 
The  cannibal  usually  became  what  he  was 
by  stress  of  starvation :  in  the  winter  when 
hunting  failed  and  he  was  far  from  help,  or 
on  a  journey  when  provisions  gave  out,  and 
his  only  choice  was  to  eat  a  companion  or 
die.  But  this  did  not  excuse  him.  As 
soon  as  he  was  detected  the  name  of  "  win- 
digo "  was  given  him,  and  if  he  did  not 
betake  himself  again  to  solitude  he  was  shot 
or  knocked  on  the  head  at  the  first  conven- 
ient opportunity.  Archange  remembered 
one  such  wretched  creature  who  had 
haunted  the  settlement  awhile,  and  then 
disappeared.     His   canoe   was   known,  and 


THE   WINDIGO.  167 

when  it  hovered  even  distantly  on  the  river 
every  child  run  to  its  mother.  The  priest 
was  less  suecessful  with  this  kind  of  outcast 
tlian  with  any  other  barbarian  on  the  fron- 
tier. 

"  Have  you  seen  him,  Waubudone  ? " 
inquired  Archange.  *'  I  wonder  if  it  is  the 
same  man  who  used  to  frighten  us  ?  " 

"  This  windigo  a  woman.  Porcupine  in 
her.  She  lie  down  and  roll  up  and  hide  her 
head  when  you  drive  her  off." 

"  Did  you  drive  her  off  ?  '* 

"  No.  She  only  come  past  my  lodge  in 
the  night." 

"  Did  you  see  her  ?  " 

"  No,  I  smell  her." 

Archange  had  heard  of  the  atmosphere 
which  windigos  far  gone  in  cannibalism 
carried  around  them.  She  desired  to  know 
nothing  more  about  the  poor  creature,  or 
the  class  to  which  the  poor  creature 
belonged,  if  such  isolated  beings  may  be 
classed.  The  Chippewa  widow  talked  with- 
out being  questioned,  however,  preparing  to 


168  TlIK    wiNDiao. 

reduce  Arcliange's  mass  of  hair  to  the  com- 
pass of  a  nightcap. 

"  My  graiuhuotlicr  told  me  there  was  a 
man  dreamod  he  had  to  eat  seven  persons. 
He  sat  })y  the  fire  and  sliivered.  If  his 
squaw  wanted  meat,  he  (juarreled  with  her. 
*  Squaw,  take  care.  Thou  wilt  drive  me  so 
far  that  I  shall  turn  windigo.' " 

Peoi)le  who  did  not  give  Archange  the 
keen  interest  of  fascinating  them  were  a 
great  weariness  to  her.  Humble  or 
wretched  human  life  filled  her  with  disgust. 
She  couhl  dance  all  night  at  the  weekly 
dances,  laughing  in  her  sleeve  at  girls  from 
whom  she  took  the  best  partners.  But  she 
never  helped  nurse  a  sick  child,  and  it  made 
her  sleepy  to  hear  of  windigos  and  misery. 
Michel  wanted  to  squat  by  the  chimney  and 
listen  until  Louizon  came  in  ;  but  she  drove 
him  out  early.  Louizon  was  kind  to  the 
orphan,  who  had  been  in  some  respects  a 
failure,  and  occasionally  let  him  sleep  on 
blankets  or  skins  by  the  hearth  instead  of 
groj^ing  to  the  dark  attic.     And  if  Michel 


THE  yyiNDiao.  lot) 

ever  waiitrd  to  escjipc  tlu^  attic,  it  was  to- 
niglit,  wlu'M  :i  windigo  was  abroad.  lUit 
Loiiizon  did  not  vxniiv. 

It  must  have  been  mi(biight  when 
Arcliango  sat  up  in  bed,  startled  out  of 
sleep  by  her  mother-in-law,  wlio  held  a  ean- 
dle  between  the  curtains.  Madame  Ca- 
dotte's  features  were  of  a  mild  Chii)pewa 
type,  yet  the  r(^stless  aboriginal  eye  made 
Arehange  uncomfortable  with  its  anxiety. 

"  Louizon  is  still  .iway,"  said  his  mother. 

"Perhaps  he  went  whitefishing  after  he 
had  his  supper."  The  young  wife  yawned 
and  rubbed  her  eyes,  beginning  to  notice 
that  her  husband  might  be  doing  somethii'g 
unusual. 

"  He  did  not  come  to  his  supper." 

"Yes,  mama.  He  came  in  with  Mon- 
sieur de  Repentigny." 

"  I  did  not  see  him.  The  seignior  ate 
alone." 

Arehange  stared,  fully  awake.  "Where 
does  the  seignior  say  he  is?" 

"  The  seignior  does  not  know.  They 
parted  at  the  door." 


170  THE  WINDIGO. 

"  Oh,  he  has  gone  to  the  lodges  to  watch 
the  dancing." 

"  I  have  been  there.  No  one  has  seen 
him  since  he  set  out  to  hunt  this  morning." 

"  Where  are  Louizon's  canoemen  ?  " 

"Jean  Boucher  and  his  son  are  at  the 
dancing.  They  say  he  came  into  this 
house." 

Archange  could  not  adjust  her  mind  to 
anxiety  without  the  suspicion  that  her  mo- 
ther-in-law might  be  acting  as  the  instru- 
ment of  Louizon's  resentment.  The  huge 
feather  bed  was  a  tan^ble  comfort  inter- 
posed  betwixt  herself  and  cal    aity. 

"  He  was  sulky  to-night,"  she  declared. 
"  He  has  gone  up  to  sleep  in  Michel's  attic 
to  frighten  me." 

"  I  have  been  there.  I  have  searched  the 
house." 

"  But  are  you  sure  it  was  Michel  in  the 
bed?" 

"  There  was  no  one.     Michel  is  here." 

Archange  snatched  the  curtain  aside,  and 
leaned  out  to  see  the  orphan  sprawled  on  a 


THE  WINDIGO.  Ill 

bearskin  in  front  of  the  collapsing  logs. 
He  had  pushed  the  sashes  inward  from  the 
gallery  and  hoisted  himself  over  the  high 
sill  after  the  bed  drapery  was  closed  for  the 
night,  for  the  window  yet  stood  open. 
Madame  Cadotte  sheltered  the  candle  ^he 
carried,  but  the  wind  blew  it  out.  There 
was  a  rich  glow  from  the  fireplace  upon 
Michel's  stuffed  legs  and  arms,  his  cheeks, 
and  the  full  parted  lips  through  which  his 
breath  audibly  flowed.  The  other  end  of 
the  room,  lacking  the  candle,  was  in  shadow. 
The  thump  of  the  Indian  drum  could  still 
be  heard,  and  distinctly  and  more  distinctly, 
as  if  they  were  approaching  the  house,  the 
rapids. 

Both  women  heard  more.  They  had  not 
noticed  any  voice  at  the  window  when  they 
were  speaking  themselves,  but  some  offen- 
sive thing  scented  the  wind,  and  they  heard, 
hoarsely  spoken  in  Chippewa  from  the  gal- 
lery, — 

"  How  fat  he  is  !  " 

Archange,   with   a    gasp,    threw    herself 


172  THE  WINDIGO. 

upon  her  mother-in-law  for  safety,  and 
Madame  Cadotte  put  both  arms  and  the 
smoking  candle  around  her.  A  feeble  yet 
dexterous  scramble  on  the  sill  resulted  in 
something  dropping  into  the  room.  It 
moved  toward  the  hearth  glow,  a  gaunt  ver- 
tebrate body  scarcely  expanded  by  ribs,  but 
covered  by  a  red  blanket,  and  a  head  with 
deathlike  features  overhung  by  strips  of 
liair.  This  vision  of  famine  leaned  forward 
and  indented  Michel  with  one  finger, 
croaking  again,  — 

"  How  fat  he  is ! " 

The  boy  roused  himself,  and,  for  one  in- 
stant stupid  and  apologetic,  was  going  to  sit 
up  and  whine.  He  saw  what  bent  over  him, 
and,  bristling  with  unimaginable  revolutions 
of  arms  and  legs,  he  yelled  a  yell  which 
seemed  to  sweep  the  thing  back  through  the 
window. 

Next  day  no  one  thought  of  dancing  or 
fishing  or  of  the  coming  English.  French- 
men and  Indians  turned  out  together  to 
search  for  Louizon  Cadotte.  Though  he  never 


THE  WINDIGO.  173 

in  his  life  had  sot  foot  to  any  expedition 
without  first  notifying  his  househohl,  and  it 
was  not  the  custom  to  hunt  alone  in  the 
woods,  his  disappearance  would  not  have 
roused  the  settlement  in  so  short  a  time  had 
there  been  no  windigo  hanging  about  the 
Sault.  It  was  told  that  the  windigo,  who 
entered  his  house  a^^ain  in  the  night,  must 
have  made  way  with  him. 

Jacques  Repentigny  heard  this  with  some 
amusement.  Of  windigos  he  had  no  experi- 
ence, but  he  had  hunted  and  camped  much 
of  the  summer  with  Louizon. 

"  I  do  not  think  he  would  let  himself  be 
knocked  on  the  head  by  a  woman,"  said 
Jacques. 

"  White  chief  does  n't  know  what  helps  a 
windigo,"  explained  a  Chippewa ;  and  the 
canoeman  Jean  Boucher  interpreted  him. 
"Bad  spirit  makes  a  windigo  strong  as  a 
bear.  I  saw  this  one.  She  stole  my  white- 
fish  and  ate  them  raw." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  give  her  cooked  food 
when  you  saw  her  ?  "  demanded  Jacques. 


174  THE  WINDIGO. 

"  She  would  not  eat  that  now.  She  likes 
cffal  better." 

"  Yes,  she  was  going  to  eat  me,"  declared 
Michel  Pensonneau.  "  After  she  finished 
Monsieur  Louizon,  she  got  through  the  win- 
dow to  carry  ine  off." 

Michel  enjoyed  the  windigo.  Though  he 
strummed  on  his  lip  and  mourned  aloud 
whenever  Madame  Cadotte  was  by,  he  felt 
so  comfortably  full  of  food  and  horror,  and 
so  important  with  his  story,  that  life  threat- 
ened him  with  nothing  worse  than  satiety. 

While  parties  went  up  the  river  and 
down  the  river,  and  talked  about  the  chutes 
in  the  rapids  where  a  victim  could  be  sucked 
down  to  death  in  an  instant,  or  about 
tracing  the  windigo' s  secret  camp,  Arcli- 
ange  hid  herself  in  the  attic.  She  lay  upon 
Michel's  bed  and  wept,  or  walked  the  plank 
floor.  It  was  no  place  for  her.  At  noon 
the  bark  roof  heated  her  almost  to  fever. 
The  dormer  windows  gave  her  little  air,  and 
there  was  dust  as  well  as  something  like  an 
individual   sediment   of    the   poverty   from 


THE   WIXDIGO.  175 

which   the   ^oy   had  come.     Yet  she  coiild 
endure   tlie    loft   diiiigcoii    better    than  the 
face  of  the  Caii)pewa  mother  who   blamed 
her,  or  the  bluff   excitement   of   Monsieur 
Cadotte.     She   could   hear   his    voice  from 
time  to  time,  as  he  ran  in  for  spirits  or  pro- 
visions for  parties  of  searchers.     And  Arch- 
ange   had   aversion,  like  the  instinct   of   a 
maid,  to   betraying   fondness  for   her   hus- 
band.    She  was  furious  with  him,  also,  for 
causing   her   pain.     When  she  thought   of 
the   windigo,   of   the   rapids,  of   any   peril 
which    might    be     working     his     limitless 
absence,   she   set   clenched    hands    in    her 
loosened  hair  and  trembled  with  hysterical 
anguish.     But  the  enormity  of  his  behavior 
if  he  were  alive  made  her  hiss  at  the  rafters. 
"  Good,  monsieur !     Next  time  I  will  have 
four  officers.     I  will  have  the  entire  oarri- 
son   sitting   along   the   gallery !     Yes,   and 
they  shall  be   English,  too.     And  there  is 
one  thing   you  will  never   know,  besides." 
She  laughed  through  her  weeping.     "  You 
will  never  know  I  made  eyes  at  a  windigo." 


176  THE   WINDIGO. 

The  preenings  and  i)osings  of  a  creature 
whose  perfections  he  once  thought  were  the 
result  of  a  happy  chance  had  made  Louizon 
roar.  She  remembered  all  their  life  to- 
gether, and  moaned,  "  I  will  say  this  :  he 
was  the  best  husband  that  any  girl  ever 
had.  We  scarcely  had  a  disagreement. 
But  to  be  the  widow  of  a  man  who  is  eaten 
up  —  O  Ste.  Marie  !  " 

In  the  clear  August  weather  the  wide 
river  seemed  to  bring  its  opposite  shores 
nearer.  Islands  within  a  stone's  throw  of 
the  settlement,  rocky  drops  in  a  boiling  cur- 
rent, vividly  showed  their  rich  foliage  of 
pines.  On  one  of  these  islands  Father 
Dablon  and  Father  Marquette  had  built 
their  first  mission  chapel ;  and  though  they 
afterwards  removed  it  to  the  mainland,  the 
old  tracery  of  foundation  stones  could  still 
be  seen.  The  mountains  of  Lake  Superior 
showed  like  a  cloud.  On  the  ridge  above 
fort  and  houses  the  Chippewa  lodges  were 
pleasant  in  the  sunlight,  sending  ribbons  of 
smoke  from  their  camp  fires  far  above  the 


THE   WINDIGO.  177 

serrated  edge  of  the  woods.  Naked  Indian 
children  and  their  playmates  of  the  settle- 
ment shouted  to  one  another,  as  they  ran 
along  the  river  margin,  threats  of  instant 
seizure  by  the  windigo.  The  Chippewa 
widow,  holding  her  husband  in  her  arms, 
for  she  was  not  permitted  to  hang  him  on 
her  back,  stood  and  talked  with  her  red- 
skinned  intimates  of  the  lodges.  The 
Frenchwomen  collected  at  the  seigniory 
house.  As  for  the  men  of  the  garrison, 
they  were  obliged  to  stay  and  receive  the 
English  then  on  the  way  from  Detour.  But 
they  came  out  to  see  the  boats  off  with  the 
concern  of  brothers,  and  Archangels  uncle, 
the  post  commandant,  embraced  Monsieur 
Cadotte. 

The  priest  and  Jacques  Repentigny  did 
not  speak  to  each  other  about  that  wretched 
creature  whose  hoverings  around  the  Sault 
were  connected  with  Louizon  Cadotte's  dis- 
appearance. But  the  priest  went  with  Lou- 
izon's  father  down  the  river,  and  Jacques 
led  the  party  which  took  the  opposite  direc- 


178  THE  WINDIGO. 

tion.  Though  so  many  years  luid  passed 
since  Father  Dablon  and  Father  Marquette 
built  the  first  bark  chapel,  their  successor 
found  his  work  very  little  easier  than  theirs 
had  been. 

A  canoe  was  missing  from  the  little  fleet 
usually  tied  alongshore,  but  it  was  not  the 
one  belonging  to  Louizon.  The  young 
seignior  took  that  one,  having  Jean  Boucher 
and  Jean's  son  to  paddle  for  him.  No 
other  man  of  Sault  Ste.  Marie  could  pole 
up  the  rapids  or  paddle  down  them  as  this 
expert  Chippewa  could.  He  had  been  bap- 
tized with  a  French  name,  and  his  son  after 
him,  but  no  Chippewa  of  pure  blood  and 
name  looked  habitually  as  he  did  into  those 
whirlpools  called  the  chutes,  where  the  slip 
of  a  paddle  meant  death.  Yet  nobody 
feared  the  rapids.  It  was  common  for  boys 
and  girls  to  flit  around  near  shore  in  birch 
canoes,  balancing  themselves  and  expertly 
dipping  up  whitefish. 

Jean  Boucher  thrust  out  his  boat  from 
behind  an  island,  and,  turning  it  as  a  fish 


THE   WINDIGO.  179 

p;li(lo8,  moved  over  thin  Hlieets  of  water 
spraying  iij)on  rocks.  The  fall  of  the  Ste. 
Marie  is  gradual,  hut  even  at  its  upper  end 
there  is  a  little  hill  to  cUnih.  Jean  set  his 
pole  into  the  stone  floor  of  the  river,  and 
lifted  the  vessel  length  by  length  from  crest 
to  crest  of  foam.  His  i)addles  lay  behind 
him,  and  his  arms  were  bare  to  the  elbows, 
showing  their  strong  red  sinews.  He  had 
let  his  hair  grow  like  a  Frenchman's,  and  it 
hung  forward  shading  his  hatless  brows. 
A  skin  apron  was  girded  in  front  of  him 
to  meet  waves  which  frothed  up  over  the 
canoe's  high  prow.  Blacksmith  of  the 
waters,  he  beat  a  path  between  juts  of  rock ; 
struggling  to  hold  a  point  with  the  pole, 
calling  a  quick  word  to  his  helper,  and 
laughing  as  he  forged  his  way.  Other  voy- 
agers who  did  not  care  to  tax  themselves 
with  this  labor  made  a  portage  with  their 
canoes  alongshore,  and  started  above  the 
glassy  curve  where  the  river  bends  down  to 
its  leap. 
Gros  Cap  rose  in  the  sky,  revealing  its 


180  THE  WINDIQO. 

jxjak  in  bolder  line.s  us  the  searchers  pushed 
up  the  Ste.  Marie,  ex|)l()riu<;  mile  after  liiilo 
of  pine  and  white  \)\vv\\  and  fantastic;  rock. 
The  shaggy  bank  stooped  to  them,  the 
illimitable  glory  of  the  wilderness  witness- 
ing a  little  procession  of  boats  like  ehi]).s 
floating  by. 

It  was  almost  sunset  when  they  camo 
back,  the  tired  paddlers  keeping  near  that 
shore  on  which  they  intended  to  land.  No 
trace  of  Louizon  Cadotte  could  be  found ; 
and  those  who  had  not  seen  the  windigo 
were  ready  to  declare  that  there  was  no 
such  thing  about  the  Sault,  wlien,  just 
above  the  rapids,  she  apj)eared  from  the 
dense  up-slope  of  forest. 

Jacques  Repentigny's  canoe  had  kept  the 
lead,  but  a  dozen  light-bodied  Chippewas 
sprung  on  shore  and  rushed  past  him  into 
the  bushes. 

The  woman  had  disappeared  in  under- 
brush, but,  surrounded  by  hunters  in  full 
chase,  she  came  running  out,  and  fell  on  her 
hands,  making  a  hoarse  noise  in  her  throat. 


THE  wiNDiao.  181 

As  she  looked  up,  all  the  marks  in  her  aged 
aboriginal  face  were  distinct  to  Jae(juos 
liepentigny.  The  sutures  in  her  temi)les 
were  parted.  She  rolled  herself  around  in 
a  ball,  and  hid  her  head  in  her  dirty  red 
blanket.  Any  wild  beast  was  in  harmony 
with  tlie  wilderness,  but  this  sick  human 
being  was  a  blot  upon  it.  Jacques  felt  the 
compassion  of  a  god  for  her.  Her  i)ursuers 
were  after  her,  and  the  thud  of  stones  they 
tln-ew  made  him  heartsick,  as  if  the  thing 
were  done  to  the  woman  he  loved. 

"  Let  her  alone  !  "  he  commanded 
fiercely. 

"Kill  her  !  "  shouted  the  hunters.  "  Hit 
the  windigo  on  the  head  !  " 

All  that  world  of  northern  air  could  not 
sweeten  her,  but  Jacques  picked  her  up 
without  a  thought  of  her  offensiveness  and 
ran  to  his  canoe.  The  bones  resisted  him ; 
the  claws  scratched  at  him  through  her 
blanket.  Jean  Boucher  lifted  a  paddle  to 
hit  the  creature  as  soon  as  she  was  down. 

"  If  you   strike   her,  I  will   kill   you ! " 


182  THE  WINDIGO. 

warned  Jacques,  and  he  sprung  into  the 
boat. 

The  superstitious  Chippewas  threw  them- 
selves madly  into  their  canoes  to  follow.  It 
would  go  hard,  but  they  would  get  the  win- 
digo  and  take  the  young  seignior  out  of  her 
spell.  The  Frenchmen,  with  man's  instinct 
for  the  chase,  were  in  full  cry  with  them. 

Jean  Boucher  laid  down  his  paddle 
sulkily,  and  his  son  did  the  same.  Jacques 
took  a  long  pistol  from  his  belt  and  pointed 
i't  at  the  old  Indian. 

''If  you  don't  paddle  for  life,  I  will 
shoot  you."  And  his  eyes  were  eyes  which 
Jean  respected  as  he  never  had  respected 
anything  before.  The  young  man  was  a 
beautiful  fellow.  If  he  wanted  to  save  a 
windigo,  why,  the  saints  let  him.  The 
priest  might  say  p,  good  word  about  it  when 
you  came  to  think,  also. 

'^'  Where  shall  I  paddle  to  ? "  inquired 
Jean  Boucher,  drawing  in  his  breath.  The 
canoe  leaped  ahead,  grazing  hands  stretched 
out  to  seize  it. 


THE  WINDIGO.  183 

*'  To  the  other  side  of  the  river." 

"  Down  the  rapids  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Go  down  rough  or  go  down  smooth  ?  " 

"  Rough  —  rough  —  where  they  cannot 
catch  you." 

The  old  canoeman  snorted.  He  would 
like  to  see  any  of  them  catch  him.  They 
were  straining  after  him,  and  half  a  dozen 
canoes  shot  down  that  glassy  slide  which 
leads  to  the  rocks. 

It  takes  three  minutes  for  a  skillful  pad- 
dler  to  run  that  dangerous  race  of  three 
quarters  of  a  mile.  Jean  Boucher  stood  at 
the  prow,  and  the  waves  boiled  as  high  as 
his  waist.  Jacques  dreaded  only  that  the 
windigo  might  move  and  destroy  the  deli- 
cate poise  of  the  boat ;  but  she  lay  very 
still.  The  little  craft  quivered  from  rock  to 
rock  without  grazing  one,  rearing  itself  over 
a  great  breaker  or  sinking  under  a  crest  of 
foam.  Now  a  billow  towered  up,  and  Jean 
broke  it  with  his  paddle,  shouting  his  joy. 
Showers  fell  on  the  woman  coiled   in    the 


184  THE  WINDIGO. 

bottom  of  the  boat.  They  were  going  clown 
very  rough  indeed.  Yells  from  the  other 
canoes  grew  less  distinct.  Jacques  turned 
his  head,  keeping  a  true  balance,  and  saw 
that  their  pursuers  were  skirting  toward  the 
shore.  They  nmst  make  a  long  detour  to 
catch  him  after  he  reached  the  foot  of  the 
fall. 

The  roar  of  awful  waters  met  him  as  he 
looked  ahead.  Jean  Boucher  drove  the  pad- 
dle down  and  spoke  to  his  son.  The  canoe 
leaned  side  wise,  sucked  by  the  first  chute,  a 
caldron  in  the  river  bed  where  all  Ste. 
Marie's  current  seemed  to  go  down,  and 
whirl,  and  rise,  and  froth,  and  roar. 

"  Ha !  "  shouted  Jean  Boucher.  His  face 
glistened  with  beads  of  water  and  the  glory 
of  mastering  Nature. 

Scarcely  were  they  past  the  first  pit 
when  the  canoe  plunged  on  the  verge  of  an- 
other. This  sight  was  a  moment  of  mad- 
ness. The  great  chute,  lined  with  moving 
water  walls  and  floored  with  whirling  foam, 
bellowed  as  if  it  were  submerging  the  world. 


THE  WINDIGO.  185 

Columns  of  green  water  sheeted  in  white 
rose  above  it  and  fell  forward  on  the  cur- 
rent. As  the  canoenien  held  on  with  their 
paddles  and  shot  by  through  spume  and 
vain,  every  soul  in  the  boat  exulted  except 
the  woman  who  lay  flat  on  its  keel.  The 
rapids  gave  a  voyager  the  illusion  that  they 
were  running  uphill  to  meet  him,  that  they 
were  breasting  and  opposing  him  instead  of 
carrying  him  forward.  There  was  scarcely 
a  breath  between  riding  the  edge  of  the  bot- 
tomless pit  and  shooting  out  on  clear  water. 
The  rapids  were  past,  and  they  paddled  for 
the  other  shore,  a  mile  aw  ay. 

On  the  west  side  the  green  water  seemed 
turning  to  fire,  but  as  the  sunset  went  out, 
shadows  sunk  on  the  broad  surface.  The 
fresh  evening  breath  of  a  primitive  world 
blew  across  it.  Down  river  the  channel 
turned,  and  Jacques  could  see  nothing  of 
the  English  or  of  the  other  party.  His  pur- 
suers had  decided  to  land  at  the  settlement. 

It  was  twilight  when  Jean  Boucher 
brought  the  canoe  to  pine  woods  which  met 


186  THE  WINDIGO. 

them  at  the  edge  of  the  water.  The  young 
Repeiitigny  had  been  wondering  wliat  he 
sliould  do  with  his  windigo.  There  was  no 
settlement  on  this  shore,  and  had  there  been 
one  it  wouhl  offer  no  hospitality  to  such  as 
she  was.  His  canoemen  would  hardly  cam]) 
with  her,  and  he  had  no  provisions.  To 
keep  her  from  being  stoned  or  torn  to  pieces 
he  had  made  an  inconsiderate  flight.  But 
his  perplexity  dissolved  in  a  moment  before 
the  sight  of  Louizon  Cadotte  coming  out  of 
the  woods  towards  thein,  having  no  hunting 
equipments  and  looking  foolish. 

"  Where  have  you  been  ? ' '  called 
Jacques. 

"  Down  this  shore,"  responded  Louizon. 

"  Did  you  take  a  canoe  and  come  out 
here  last  night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur.  I  wished  to  be  by  my- 
self. The  canoe  is  below.  I  was  coming 
home." 

"  It  is  time  you  were  coming  home,  when 
all  the  men  in  the  settlement  are  searching 
for  you,  and  all  the  women  trying  to  console 
your  mother  and  your  wife." 


THE   WINDIGO.  187 

"  My  wife  —  she  is  not  then  talking  with 
any  one  on  the  gallery  ?  "  Louizon's  voice 
betrayed  gratified  revenge. 

"  I  do  not  know.  But  there  is  a  woman 
in  this  canoe  who  might  talk  on  the  gallery 
and  complain  to  the  priest  against  a  man 
who  has  got  her  stoned  on  his  account." 

Louizon  did  not  understand  this,  even 
when  he  looked  at  the  heap  of  dirty  blanket 
in  the  canoe. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  The  Chippewas  call  her  a  windigo. 
They  were  all  chasing  her  for  eating  you 
up.  But  now  we  can  take  her  back  to  the 
priest,  and  they  will  let  her  alone  when  they 
see  you.     Where  is  your  canoe  ?  " 

"Down  here  among  the  bushes,"  an- 
swered Louizon.  He  went  to  get  it,* 
ashamed  to  look  the  young  seignior  in  the 
face.  He  was  light-headed  from  hunger 
and  exposure,  and  what  followed  seemed 
to  him  afterwards  a  piteous  dream. 

"  Come  back  I  "  called  the  young  seign- 
ior, and  Louizon  turned  back.  The  two 
men's  eyes  met  in  a  solemn  look.         __ 


188  TUB  WINDIGO. 

■ 

"  Jean  Boucher  says  this  woman  is  dead." 

Jean  Boucher  stood  on  the  bank,  holding 
the  canoe  with  one  hand,  and  turning  her 
unresisting  face  with  the  other.  Jacques 
and  Louizon  took  off  their  hats. 

They  heard  the  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will. 
The  river  had  lost  all  its  green  and  was  pur- 
ple, and  purple  shadows  lay  on  the  distant 
mountains  and  opposite  ridge.  Darkness 
was  mercifully  covering  this  poor  demented 
Indian  woman,  overcome  by  the  burdens  of 
her  life,  aged  without  being  venerable,  per- 
haps made  hideous  by  want  and  sorrow. 

When  they  had  looked  at  her  in  silence, 
respecting  her  because  she  could  no  longer 
be  hurt  by  anything  in  the  world,  Louizon 
whispered  aside  to  his  seignior, — 
'     "  What  shall  we  do  with  her  ?  " 

"Bury  her,"  the  old  canoeman  answered 
for  him. 

One  of  the  party  yet  thought  of  taking 
her  back  to  the  priest.  But  she  did  not 
belong  to  priests  and  rites.  Jean  Boucher 
said  they  could  dig  in  the  forest  mould  witli 


THE  WINDIGO.  189 

a  paddle,  and  lie  and  his  son  would  make 
her  a  grave.  The  two  Chippewas  left  the 
burden  to  the  young  men. 

Jacques  Repentigny  and  Louizon  Cadotte 
took  up  the  woman  who,  perhaps  had  never 
been  what  they  considered  woman ;  who  had 
missed  the  good,  and  got  for  her  portion  the 
ignorance  and  degradation  of  the  world ; 
yet  who  must  be  something  to  the  Al- 
mighty, for  he  had  sent  youth  and  love  to 
pity  and  take  care  of  her  in  her  death. 
They  carried  her  into  the  woods  between 
them. 


THE  KIDNAPED   BRIDE. 

(For  this  story,  little  oliangecl  from  tlio 
form  in  which  it  was  handed  down  to  him, 
I  am  indebted  to  Dr.  J.  F.  Snyder  of  Vir- 
ginia, Illinois,  a  descendant  of  the  Saucier 
family.  Even  the  title  remains  unchanged, 
since  he  insisted  on  keeping  the  one  always 
used  by  his  uncle,  Mathieu  Saucier.  "  Mon 
Oncle  Mathieu,"  he  says,  "I  knew  well, 
and  often  sat  with  breathless  interest  listen- 
ing to  his  narration  of  incidents  in  the  early 
settlement  of  the  Bottom  lands.  He  was  a 
very  quiet,  dignified,  and  unobtrusive  gen- 
tleman, and  in  pv^infc  of  common  sense  and 
intelligence  much  above  the  average  of  the 
race  to  which  he  belonged ;  but,  like  all  the 
rest  of  the  French  stock,  woefully  wanting 
in  energy  and  never  in  a  hurry.  He  was  a 
splendid  fiddler,  and  consequently  a  favor- 


THE  KWNAVKl)  liltWE.  101 

ito  witli  all,  especially  the  young  folks,  wlio 
easily  pressed  him  into  service  on  all  occa- 
sions  to  play  for  their  numerous  dances. 
He  died  at  Prairie  du  Pont,  in  18G3,  at  the 
age  of  eighty-one  years.  Ilis  mother,  Ma- 
nctto  Le  Compt,  then  a  young  girl,  was  one 
of  the  bridesmaids  of  the  kidnaped  bride.") 

Yes,  the  marshes  were  then  in  a  chain 
along  the  foot  of  the  bluffs :  Grand  Marais, 
Marais  de  Bois  Coupe,  Marais  de  I'Ourse, 
Marais  Perdu ;  with  a  rigole  here  and  there, 
straight  as  a  canal,  to  carry  the  water  into 
the  Mississippi.  You  do  not  see  Cahokia 
beautiful  as  it  was  when  Monsieur  St.  Ange 
de  Bellerive  was  acting  as  governor  of  the 
Illinois  Territory,  and  waiting  at  Fort  Char- 
tres  for  the  British  to  take  possession  after 
the  conquest.  Some  people  had  indeed 
gone  off  to  Ste.  Genevieve,  and  to  Pain 
Court,  that  you  now  call  Sah  Loui',  where 
Pontiac  was  afterwards  buried  under  sweet- 
brier,  and  is  to-day  trampled  under  pave- 
ments.     An  Indian  killed  Pontiac  between 


192  TIIK  KIDNAPED  lililDK 

Ciihokia  and  Piairio  dii  Pont.  When  ho 
rose  from  his  body  and  saw  it  was  not  a 
British  knife,  but  a  red  man's  tomahawk, 
he  was  not  a  chief  who  woukl  lie  still  and 
bear  it  in  silence.  Yes,  I  have  heard  that 
he  has  been  seen  walking  through  the  grape- 
vine tangle,  all  bleached  as  if  the  bad  red- 
ness was  burned  out  of  him.  But  the  priest 
will  tell  you  better,  my  son.  Do  not  be- 
lieve such  tales. 

Besides,  no  two  stories  are  alike.  Pon- 
tiac  was  killed  in  his  French  officer's  uni- 
form, which  Monsieur  de  Montcalm  gave 
him,  and  half  the  people  who  saw  him  walk- 
ing declared  he  wore  that,  while  the  rest 
swore  he  was  in  buckskins  and  a  blanket. 
You  see  how  it  is.  A  veritable  ghost  would 
always  appear  the  same,  and  not  keep 
changing  its  clothes  like  a  vain  girl.  Paul 
Le  Page  had  a  fit  one  night  from  seeing  the 
dead  chief  with  feathers  in  his  hair,  stand- 
ing like  stone  in  the  white  French  uniform. 
But  do  not  credit  such  things. 

It  was  half  a  dozen  years  before  Pontiac's 


THE  KIDNAPED  lililDE.  193 

(loath  that  Celcsto  Barhoau  was  kidnaped 
on  her  wedding  day.  She  lived  at  Piairio 
du  Pont ;  and  though  Prairie  du  Pont  ia 
but  a  mile  and  a  half  south  of  Cahokia,  the 
road  was  not  as  safe  then  as  it  now  is.  My 
mother  was  one  of  the  bridesmaids ;  she 
has  told  it  over  to  me  a  score  of  times. 
The  wedding  was  to  bo  in  the  church ;  the 
same  church  that  now  stands  on  tlie  east 
side  of  the  square.  And  on  the  south  side 
of  the  square  was  the  old  auberge.  Claudis 
Beauvois  said  you  could  get  as  good  wines 
at  that  tavern  as  you  could  in  New  Orleans. 
But  the  court-house  was  not  built  until 
1795.  The  people  did  not  need  a  court- 
house. They  had  no  quarrels  among  them- 
selves which  the  priest  could  not  settle,  and 
after  the  British  conquest  their  only  enemies 
were  those  Puants,  the  Pottawattamie  In- 
dians, who  took  the  English  side,  and  paid 
no  regard  when  peace  was  declared,  but  still 
tormented  the  French  because  there  was  no 
military  power  to  check  them.  You  see  the 
common    fields    across    the    rigole.        The 


194  THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE. 

Puants  stole  stock  from  the  common  fields, 
they  trampled  down  crops,  and  kidnaped 
children  and  even  women,  to  be  ransomed 
for  so  many  horses  each.  The  French  tried 
to  be  friendly,  and  with  presents  and  good 
words  to  induce  the  Puants  to  leave.  But 
those  Puants  —  Oh,  they  were  British 
Indians :  nothing  but  whipping  would  take 
the  impudence  out  of  them. 

Celeste  Barbeau's  father  and  mother  lived 
at  Prairie  du  Pont,  and  Alexis  Barbeau  was 
the  richest  man  in  this  part  of  the  American 
Bottom.  When  Alexis  Barbeau  was  down 
on  his  knees  at  mass,  people  used  to  say 
he  counted  his  money  instead  of  his  beads ; 
it  was  at  least  as  dear  to  him  as  religion. 
And  when  he  came  au  Caho  V  he  had  n't  a 
word  for  a  poor  man.  At  Prairie  du  Pont 
he  had  built  himself  a  fine  brick  house ;  the 
bricks  were  brought  from  Philadelphia  by 
way  of  New  Orleans.  You  have  yourself 
seen  it  many  a  time,  and  the  crack  down 
the  side  made  by  the   gi'eat  earthquake  of 

1  To  Cahokia. 


THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE.  195 

1811.  There  he  lived  like  an  estated  gen- 
tleman, for  Prairie  du  Pont  was  then  no- 
thing but  a  cluster  of  tenants  around  his 
feet.  It  was  after  his  death  that  the  vil- 
lage grew.  Celeste  did  not  stay  at  Prairie 
du  Pont ;  she  was  always  au  Caho',  with 
lier  grandmother  and  grandfather,  the  old 
Barbeaus. 

Along  the  south  bank  of  this  rigole  which 
bounds  the  north  end  of  Caho'  were  all  the 
pleasantest  houses  then  :  rez-de-chaussee,  of 
course,  but  large ;  with  dormer  windows  in 
the  roofs ;  and  high  of  foundation,  having 
flights  of  steps  going  up  to  the  galleries. 
For  though  the  Mississippi  was  a  mile  away 
in  those  days,  and  had  not  yet  eaten  in  to 
our  very  sides,  it  often  came  visiting.  I 
have  seen  this  grassy-bottomed  rigole  many 
a  time  swimming  with  fifteen  feet  of  water, 
and  sending  ripples  to  the  gallery  steps. 
Between  the  marais  and  the  Mississippi,  the 
spring  rains  were  a  perpetual  danger. 
There  are  men  who  want  the  marshes  all 
filled  up.     They  say  it  will  add  to  us  on  one 


196  THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE. 

side  what  the  great  river  is  taking  from  us 
on  the  other;  but  myself  —  I  would  never 
throw  in  a  shoveKul :  God  made  this  world ; 
it  is  good  enough  ;  and  when  the  water  rises 
we  can  take  to  boats. 

The  Le  Compts  lived  in  this  very  house, 
and  the  old  Barbeaus  lived  next,  on  the  cor- 
ner, where  this  rigole  road  crosses  the  street 
running  north  and  south.  Every  house 
along  the  rigole  v-zas  set  in  spacious  grounds, 
with  shade  trees  and  gardens,  and  the  slop- 
ing lawns  blazed  with  flowers.  My  mother 
said  it  was  much  prettier  than  Kaskaskia; 
not  crowded  with  traffic ;  not  overrun  with 
foreigners.  Everybody  seemed  to  be 
making  a  fete,  to  be  visiting  or  receiving; 
visits.  At  smiset  the  fiddle  and  the  banjo 
began  their  melody.  The  young  girls 
would  gather  at  Barbeau's  or  Le  Compt's 
or  Pensonneau's  —  at  any  one  of  a  dozen 
places,  and  the  young  men  would  follow. 
It  was  no  trouble  to  have  a  dance  every 
evening,  and  on  feast  days  and  great  days 
there  were  balls,  of  course.     The  violin  ran 


THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE.  197 

ill  my  family.  Celeste  Barheau  would  call 
across  the  hedge  to  my  mother,  — 

"Manette,  will  Monsieur  Le  Compt  play 
for  us  again  to-night  ?  " 

And  Monsieur  Le  Compt  or  anybody 
who  could  handle  a  bow  would  play  for 
her.  Celeste  was  the  life  of  the  place: 
she  sang  like  a  lark,  she  was  like  thistle- 
down in  the  dance,  she  talked  well,  and  was 
so  handsome  that  a  stranger  from  New  Or- 
leans stopped  in  the  street  to  gaze  after 
her.  At  the  auberge  he  said  he  was  going 
au  Pay,^  but  after  he  saw  Celeste  Barbeau 
he  stayed  in  Caho'.  I  have  heard  my  mo- 
ther tell  —  who  often  saw  it  combed  out  — 
that  Celeste's  long  black  hair  hung  below 
her  knees,  though  it  was  so  curly  that  half 
its  length  was  taken  up  by  the  natural  crep- 
ing  of  the  locks. 

The  old  French  women,  especially  about 
Pain  Court  and  Caho',  loved  to  go  into 
their  children's  bedrooms  and  sit  on  the 
side  of    the   bed,   telling   stories  half    the 

1  To  Peoria. 


198  THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE. 

night.  It  was  part  of  the  general  good 
time.  And  thus  they  often  found  out  what 
the  girls  were  thinking  about ;  for  women  of 
experience  need  only  a  hint.  It  is  true  old 
Madame  Barbeau  had  never  been  even  au 
Kaw;^  but  one  may  live  and  grow  wise 
without  crossing  the  rigoles  north  and  south, 
or  the  bluffs  and  river  east  and  west. 

"  Gra'mere,  Manette  is  sleepy,"  Celeste 
would  say,  when  my  mother  was  with  her. 

"  Well,  I  will  go  to  my  bed,"  the  grand- 
mother would  promise.  But  still  she  sat 
and  joined  in  the  chatter.  Sometimes  the 
girls  would  doze,  and  wake  in  the  middle  of 
a  long  tale.  But  Madame  Barbeau  heard 
more  than  she  told,  for  she  said  to  her  hus- 
band :  — 

"  It  may  come  to  pass  that  the  widow 
Chartrant's  Gabriel  will  be  making  propos- 
als to  Alexis  for  little  Celeste." 

"  Poor  lad,"  said  the  grandfather,  "  he 
has  nothing  to  back  his  proposals  with.  It 
will  do  him  no  good." 

^  To  Kaskaskia. 


THE  KIDNAPED  lililDE.  199 

And  so  it  proved.  Gabriel  Chartrant 
was  the  leader  of  the  young  men  as  Ce- 
leste was  of  the  girls.  But  he  only  in- 
herited the  cedar  house  his  mother  lived 
in.  Those  cedar  houses  were  built  in 
Caho'  without  an  ounce  of  iron  ;  each  cedar 
shingle  was  held  to  its  place  with  cedar 
pegs,  and  the  boards  of  the  floors  fastened 
down  in  the  same  manner.  They  had  their 
galleries,  too,  all  tightly  pegged  to  place. 
Gabriel  was  obliged  to  work,  but  he  was 
so  big  he  did  not  mind  that.  He  was 
made  very  straight,  with  a  high-lifted  head 
and  a  full  chest.  He  could  throw  any  man 
in  a  wrestling  match.  And  he  was  always 
first  with  a  kindness,  and  would  nurse  the 
sick,  and  he  was  not  afraid  of  contagious 
diseases  or  of  anything.  Gabriel  could 
match  Celeste  as  a  dancer,  but  it  was  not 
likely  Alexis  Barbeau  would  find  him  a 
match  in  any  other  particular.  And  it 
grew  more  unlikely  every  day  that  the  man 
from  New  Orleans  spent  in  Caho'. 

The  stranger  said  his  name  was  Claudis 


200  TIJE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE. 

Beauvois,  and  he  was  interested  in  great 
mercantile  1  ouses  both  in  Philadelphia  and 
New  Orleans,  and  had  come  up  the  river 
to  see  the  country.  He  was  about  fifty,  a 
handsome,  easy  man,  with  plenty  of  fine 
clothes  and  money,  and  before  he  had  been 
at  the  tavern  a  fortniglit  the  hospitable 
people  were  inviting  him  everywhere,  and 
he  danced  with  the  youngest  of  them  all. 
There  was  about  him  what  the  city  alone 
gives  a  man,  and  the  mothers,  when  they 
saw  his  jewels,  considered  that  there  was 
only  one  drawback  to  marrying  their  daugh- 
ters to  Claudis  Beauvois :  his  bride  must 
travel  far  from  Caho', 

But  it  was  plain  whose  daughter  he  had 
fixed  his  mind  upon,  and  Alexis  Barbeau 
would  not  make  any  difficulty  about  parting 
with  Celeste.  She  had  lived  away  from 
him  so  much  since  her  childhood  that  he 
would  scarcely  miss  her ;  and  it  was  better 
to  have  a  daughter  well  settled  in  New 
Orleans  than  hampered  by  a  poor  match 
in  her  native  village.      And  this  was  what 


THE  KIDNAPED  lili^DE.  201 

Gabriel  Chartrant  was  told  when  he  made 
haste  to  propose  for  Celeste  about  the  same 
time. 

"  I  have  already  accepted  for  my  daughter 
much  more  gratifying  offers  than  any  you 
can  make.  The  banns  will  be  put  up  next 
Sunday,  and  in  three  weeks  she  will  be 
Madame  Eeauvois." 

When  Celeste  heard  this  she  was  beside 
herself.  She  used  to  tell  my  mother  that 
Monsieur  Beauvois  walked  as  if  his  natural 
gait  was  on  all  fours,  and  he  still  took  to  it 
when  he  was  not  watched.  His  shoidders 
were  bent  forward,  his  hands  were  in  his 
pockets,  and  he  studied  the  ground.  She 
could  not  endure  him.  But  the  customs 
were  very  strict  in  the  matter  of  marriage. 
No  French  girl  in  those  days  could  be  so 
hold  as  to  reject  the  husband  her  father 
picked,  and  own  that  she  preferred  some 
one  else.  Celeste  was  taken  home  to  get 
ready  for  her  wedding.  She  hung  on  my 
mother  ^  neck  when  choosing  her  for  a 
bridesmaid,  and  neither  of  the  girls  could 


202  THE  KIDNAPED  liltlDE. 

comfort  the  other.  Madame  Barbcau  was  a 
fat  woman  wlio  loved  ease,  and  never  inter- 
fered with  Alexis.  She  would  be  disturbed 
enough  by  settling  her  daughter  without 
meddling  about  bridegrooms.  The  grand- 
father  and  grandmother  were  sorry  for  Ga- 
briel Chartrant,  and  tearful  over  Celeste; 
still,  when  you  are  forming  an  alliance  for 
your  child,  it  is  very  imprudent  to  disregard 
great  wealth  and  by  preference  give  her  to 
poverty.  Their  son  Alexis  convinced  them 
of  this ;  and  he  had  always  prospered. 

So  the  banns  were  put  up  in  church  for 
three  weeks,  and  all  Cahokia  was  invited  to 
the  grand  wedding.  Alexis  Barbeau  re- 
gretted there  was  not  time  to  send  to  New 
Orleans  for  much  that  he  wanted  to  fit  his 
daughter  out  and  provide  for  his  guests. 

"If  he  had  sent  there  a  month  ago  for 
some  certainties  about  the  bridegroom  it 
might  be  better,"  said  Paul  Le  Page.  "  I 
have  a  cousin  in  New  Orleans  who  could 
have  told  us  if  he  really  is  the  great  man  he 
pretends  to  be."    But  the  women  said  it  was 


THE  KIDNAPED  lililDE.  203 

plain  Paul  Le  Pago  was  one  of  those  who 
had  wanted  Celeste  himself.  The  suspicious 
nature  is  a  poison. 

Gabriel  Chartrant  did  not  say  anything 
for  a  week,  but  went  along  the  streets  hag- 
gard, though  with  his  head  up,  and  worked 
as  if  he  meant  to  kill  himself.  The  second 
week  he  spent  his  nights  forming  desperate 
plans.  The  young  men  followed  him  as 
they  always  did,  and  they  held  their  meet- 
ing down  the  rigole,  clustered  together  on 
the  bank.  They  could  hear  the  frogs  croak 
in  the  marais ;  it  was  dry,  and  the  water 
was  getting  low.  Gabriel  used  to  say  he 
never  heard  a  frog  croak  afterwards  with- 
out a  sinking  of  the  heart.  It  was  the 
voice  of  misery.  But  Gabriel  had  strong 
partisans  in  this  council.  Le  Maudit  Pen- 
sonneau  offered  with  his  own  hand  to  kill 
that  interloping  stranger  whom  he  called 
the  old  devil,  and  argued  the  matter  ve- 
hemently when  his  offer  was  declined.  Le 
Maudit  was  a  wild  lad,  so  nervous  that  he 
stopped   at   nothing   in   his   riding   or    his 


204  THE  KIDNAPED  liltlDE. 

frolics  ;   and   so  got  the  name  of   the  Be- 
witched.^ 

But  the  third  week,  Gabriel  said  he  had 
decided  on  a  plan  which  niiglit  break  off 
this  detestable  marriage  if  the  others  would 
help  him.  They  all  declared  they  would 
do  anything  for  him,  and  he  then  told  them 
he  had  privately  sent  word  about  it  by  Ma- 
nette  to  Celeste  ;  and  Celeste  was  willing  to 
have  it  or  any  plan  attempted  which  would 
prevent  the  wedding. 

"  We  will  dress  ourselves  as  Puants," 
said  Gabriel,  "  and  make  a  rush  on  the  wed- 
ding party  on  the  way  to  church,  and  carry 
off  the  bride.'' 

Le  Maudit  Pensonneau  sprung  up  and 
danced  with  joy  when  he  heard  that.  No- 
thing would  please  him  better  than  to  dress 
as  a  Puant  and  carry  off  a  bride.  The 
Cahokians  were  so  used  to  being  raided  by 
the  Puants  that  they  would  readily  believe 
such  an  attack  had  been  made.  That  very 
week  the  Puants  had  galloped  at  midnight, 

^  Cahokiau  softening  of  cursed. 


THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE.  206 

whooping  tlirougli  the;  town,  and  swept  off 
from  tho  common  fields  a  Hock  of  Lo  Page's 
go.its  and  two  of  Larue's  cattle.  One  might 
expect  they  would  hear  of  such  a  wedding 
as  Celeste  Barbeau's.  Indeed,  the  people 
were  so  tired  of  the  Puants  that  they  had 
sent  urgently  to  St.  Ange  de  Bellerive  ask- 
ing that  soldiers  be  marched  from  Fort 
Chartres  to  give  them  military  protection. 

It  would  be  easy  enough  for  the  young 
men  to  make  themselves  look  like  Indians. 
What  one  lacked  another  could  supply. 

"  But  two  of  us  cannot  take  any  part  in 
the  raid,"  said  Gabriel.  "Two  must  be 
ready  at  the  river  with  a  boat.  And  they 
must  take  Celeste  as  fast  as  they  can  row 
up  the  river  to  Pain  Court  to  my  aunt 
Choutou.  My  aunt  Choutou  will  keep  her 
safely  until  I  can  make  some  terms  with 
Alexis  Barbeau.  Maybe  he  will  give  me 
his  daughter,  if  I  rescue  her  from  the 
Puants.  And  if  worst  comes  to  worst, 
there  is  the  missionary  priest  at  Pain 
Court;  he  may  be  persuaded  to  marry  us. 
But  who  is  willing  to  be  at  the  river  ?  '*       - 


200  THE  KWNAVKI)  JiRIDE. 

Pjiul  Jind  Jacques  Lo  Pjij;o  sjiid  tliey 
would  uudcrtaku  the  bout.  They  were 
Bteady  and  trusty  fellows  and  p;ood  river 
men ;  not  so  keen  at  riding  and  luniting  as 
the  others,  but  in  bettor  favor  with  the 
I)rie8t  on  account  of  their  behavior. 

So  the  scheme  was  very  well  laid  out,  and 
the  wedding  day  came,  clear  and  bright,  as 
promising  as  any  bride's  day  that  ever  was 
seen.  Claudis  Beauvois  and  a  few  of  his 
friends  galloped  off  to  Prairie  du  Pcmt  to 
bring  the  bride  to  (church.  The  road  from 
Caho'  to  Prairie  du  Pont  was  packed  on 
both  sides  with  dense  thickets  of  black  oak, 
honey  locust,  and  red  haws.  Here  and 
there  a  habitant  had  cut  out  a  patch  and 
built  his  cabin;  or  a  path  broken  by  hunt- 
ers trailed  towards  the  Mississippi.  You 
ride  the  same  track  to-day,  my  child,  only  it 
is  not  as  shaggy  and  savage  as  the  course 
then  lay. 

And  as  soon  as  Claudis  Beauvois  was  out 
of  sight,  Gabriel  Cliartrant  followed  with 
his  dozen   French   Puants,  in  feathers  and 


TJI];:  KIDNAPED  lililDE.  207 

biickHkin,  Jill  smeared  with  reel  and  yellow 
ochre,  well  moiuittul  and  well  armed.  They 
rode  along  until  they  reaeheil  the  last  path 
which  turns  off  to  the  river.  At  the  end  of 
that  path,  a  mile  away  thronj^h  the  under- 
brush, Paul  and  Jacques  Le  Page  were  sta- 
tioned with  a  boat.  The  young  men  with 
Gabriel  dismounted  and  led  their  horses 
into  the  thicket  to  wait  for  his  signal. 

The  birds  had  begun  to  sing  just  after 
three  o'clock  that  clear  morning,  for  Celeste 
lying  awake  heard  them ;  and  they  were 
keeping  it  up  in  the  bushes.  Gabriel 
leaned  his  feathered  head  over  the  road, 
listening  for  hoof-falls  and  watching  for  the 
first  puff  of  dust  in  the  direction  of  Prairie 
du  Pont.  The  road  was  not  as  well  trod- 
den as  it  is  now,  and  a  little  ridge  of  weeds 
grew  along  the  centre,  high  enough  to  rake 
the  stirrup  of  a  horseman. 

But  in  the  distance,  instead  of  the  pat-a- 
pat  of  iron  hoofs  began  a  sudden  uproar  of 
cries  and  wild  whoops.  Then  a  cloud  of 
dust   came   in  earnest.     Claudia    Beauvois 


208  THE  KIDNAPED  BlilDE. 

alone,  without  any  hat,  wild  with  fright, 
was  galloping  towards  Cahokia.  Gabriel 
understood  that  something  had  happened 
which  ruined  his  own  plan.  He  and  his 
men  sprung  on  their  horses  and  headed  off 
the  fugitive.  The  bridegroom  who  had 
passed  that  way  so  lately  with  smiles,  yelled 
and  tried  to  wheel  his  horse  into  the  brush ; 
but  Gabriel  caught  his  bridle  and  demanded 
to  know  what  was  the  matter.  As  soon  as 
he  heard  the  French  tongue  spoken  he 
begged  for  his  life,  ^.nd  to  know  what  more 
they  required  of  him,  since  the  rest  of  their 
band  had  already  taken  his  bride.  They 
made  him  tell  them  the  facts.  The  real 
Puants  had  attacked  the  wedding  proces- 
sion before  it  was  out  of  sight  of  Prairie 
du  Pont,  and  had  scattered  it  and  carried 
off  Celeste.  He  did  not  know  what  had 
become  of  anybody  except  himself,  after 
she  was  taken. 

Gabriel  gave  his  horse  a  cut  which  was 
like  a  kick  to  its  rider.  He  shot  ahead, 
glad  to  pass  what  he  had  taken  for  a  second 


THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE.  209 

body  of  Indians,  and  Le  Maudit  Pensonneau 
hooted  after  him. 

"The  miserable  coward.  I  wish  I  had 
taken  his  scalp.  He  n  akes  me  feel  a  very- 
good  Puant  indeed." 

"  Who  cares  what  becomes  of  him  ? " 
said  Gabriel.  "It  is  Celeste  that  we 
want.  The  real  Fuants  have  got  ahead  of 
us  and  kidnaped  the  bride.  Will  any  of 
you  go  with  me  ?  " 

The  poor  fellow  was  white  as  ashes.  Not 
a  man  needed  to  ask  him  where  he  was 
going,  but  they  all  answered  in  a  breath 
and  dashed  after  him.  They  broke  di- 
rectly through  the  thicket  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  road,  and  came  out  into  the 
tall  prairie  grass.  They  knew  every  path, 
marais,  and  rigole  for  miles  around,  and 
took  their  course  eastward,  correctly  judg- 
ing that  the  Indians  would  follow  the  line 
of  the  bluffs  and  go  north.  Splash  went 
their  horses  among  the  reeds  of  sloughs  and 
across  sluggish  creeks,  and  by  this  short  cut 
they  soon  came  on  the  fresh  trail. 


210  THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE. 

At  Falling  Spring  they  made  a  halt  to 
rest  the  horses  a  few  minutes,  and  wash  the 
red  and  yellow  paint  off  their  hands  and 
faces;  then  galloped  on  along  the  rocky 
bluffs  up  the  Bottom  lands.  But  after  a 
few  miles  they  saw  they  had  lost  the  trail. 
Closely  scouting  in  every  direction,  they  had 
to  go  back  to  Falling  Spring,  and  there  at 
last  they  found  that  the  Indians  had  left  the 
Bottom  and  by  a  winding  path  among  rocks 
ascended  to  the  uplands.  Much  time  was 
lost.  They  had  heard,  while  they  galloped, 
the  church  bell  tolling  alarm  in  Cahokia, 
and  they  knew  how  the  excitable  inhab- 
itants were  running  together  at  Beauvois' 
story,  the  women  weeping  and  the  men  arm- 
ing themselves,  calling  a  council,  and  load- 
ing with  contempt  a  runaway  bridegroom. 

Gabriel  and  his  men,  with  their  faces  set 
north,  hardly  glanced  aside  to  see  the  river 
shining  along  its  distant  bed.  But  one  of 
them  thought  of  saying,  — 

"  Paul  and  Jacques  will  have  a  long  wait 
with  the  boat." 


THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE.  211 

The  sun  passed  over  their  heads,  and 
sunk  hour  by  hour,  and  set.  The  western 
sky  was  red;  and  night  began  to  close  in, 
and  still  they  urged  their  tired  horses  on. 
There  would  be  a  moon  a  little  past  its  full, 
jind  they  counted  on  its  light  when  it  should 
rise. 

The  trail  of  the  Puants  descended  to  the 
Bottom  again  at  the  head  of  the  Grand 
Marais.  There  was  heavy  timber  here. 
The  night  shadow  of  trees  and  rocks  cov- 
ered them,  and  they  began  to  move  more 
cautiously,  for  all  signs  pointed  to  a  camp. 
And  sure  enough,  when  they  had  passed  an 
abutment  of  the  ridge,  far  off  through  the 
woods  they  saw  a  fire. 

My  son  (mon  Oncle  Mathieu  would  say 
at  this  point  of  the  story),  will  you  do  me 
the  favor  to  bring  me  a  coal  for  my  pipe? 

(The  coal  being  brought  in  haste,  he  put 
it  into  the  bowl  with  his  finger  and  thumb, 
and  seemed  to  doze  while  he  drew  at  the 
stem.  The  smoke  puffed  deliberately  from 
his  lips,  while  all  the  time  that  mysterious 


212  THE  KIDNAPED  BBIDE. 

fire  was  burning  in  the  woods  for  my  impa- 
tience to  dance  upon  with  hot  feet,  above 
the  Grand  Marais !) 

Oh,  yes,  Gabriel  and  his  men  were  get- 
ting very  close  to  the  Puants.  They  dis- 
mounted, and  tied  their  horses  in  a  crab- 
apple  thicket  and  crept  forward  on  foot. 
He  halted  them,  and  crawled  alone  toward 
the  light  to  reconnoitre,  careful  not  to  crack 
a  twig  or  make  the  least  noise.  The  nearer 
he  crawled  the  more  his  throat  seemed  to 
choke  up  and  his  ears  to  fill  with  buzzing 
sounds.  The  camp  fire  showed  him  Celeste 
tied  to  a  tree.  She  looked  pale  and  de- 
jected, and  her  head  rested  against  the  tree 
stem,  but  her  eyes  kept  roving  the  darkness 
in  every  direction  as  if  she  expected  rescue. 
Her  bridal  finery  had  been  torn  by  the 
bushes  and  her  hair  was  loose,  but  Gabriel 
had  never  seen  Celeste  when  she  looked 
so  beautiful. 

Thirteen  big  Puants  were  sitting  around 
the  camp  fire  eating  their  supper  of  half- 
raw  meat.     Their  horses  were  hobbled  a  lit- 


THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE.  213 

tie  beyond,  munching  such  picking  as  could 
be  found  among  the  fern.  Gabriel  went 
back  as  still  as  a  snake  and  whispered  his 
orders  to  his  men. 

Ev*^ry  Frenchman  must  pick  the  Puant 
directly  in.  front  of  him,  and  be  sure  to  hit 
that  Puant.  If  the  attack  was  half-hearted 
and  the  Indians  gained  time  to  rally.  Ce- 
leste would  suffer  the  consequences ;  they 
could  kill  her  or  escape  with  her.  If  you 
wish  to  gain  an  Indian\s  respect  you  must 
make  a  neat  job  of  shooting  him  down.  He 
never  forgives  a  bungler. 

"  And  then,"  said  Gabriel,  "  we  will  rush 
in  with  our  knives  and  hatchets.  It  must 
be  all  done  in  a  moment." 

The  men  reprimed  their  flintlocks,  and 
crawled  forward  abreast.  Gabriel  was  at 
the  extreme  right.  When  they  were  near 
enough  he  gave  his  signal,  the  nasal  singing 
of  the  rattlesnake.  The  guns  cracked  all 
together,  and  every  Cahokian  sprung  up  to 
finish  the  work  with  knife  and  hatchet. 
Nine  of  the  Puants  fell  dead,  and  the  rest 


214  THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE. 

were  gone  before  the  smoke  cleared.  They 
left  their  meat,  their  horses,  and  arms. 
They  were  off  like  deer,  straight  through 
the  woods  to  any  place  of  safety.  Every 
marksman  had  taken  the  Indian  directly  in 
front  of  him,  but  as  they  were  abreast  and 
the  Puants  in  a  circle,  those  four  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  fire  had  been  sheltered. 
Le  Maudit  Pensonneau  scalped  the  red 
heads  by  the  fire  and  hung  the  scalps  in  his 
belt.  Our  French  people  took  up  too 
easily,  indeed,  with  savage  ways;  but  Le 
Maudit  Pensonneau  was  always  full  of  his 
pranks. 

Oh,  yes,  Gabriel  himself  untied  Celeste. 
She  was  wild  with  joy,  and  cried  on  Ga- 
briel's shoulder;  and  all  the  young  men 
who  had  taken  their  first  communion  with 
Gabriel  and  had  played  with  this  dear  girl 
when  she  was  a  child,  felt  the  tears  come 
into  their  own  eyes.  All  but  Le  Maudit 
Pensonneau.  He  was  busy  rounding  up 
the  horses. 

"  Here  's  my  uncle  Larue's  filly  that  was 


TUE  KIDNAPED  liRIDE.  215 

taken  two  weeks  ago,"  said  Le  Maudit, 
calling  from  the  hobbling  place.  "  And 
here  are  the  blacks  that  Ferland  lost,  and 
Pierre's  pony  —  half  these  horses  are  Caho' 
horses." 

He  tied  them  together  so  that  they  coidd 
be  driven  two  or  three  abreast  ahead  of  the 
party,  and  then  he  gathered  up  all  the  guns 
left  by  the  Indians. 

Gabriel  now  called  a  council,  for  it  had  to 
be  decided  directly  what  they  should  do  next. 
Pain  Court  was  seven  miles  in  a  straight 
Hne  from  the  spot  where  they  stood ;  while 
Cahokia  was  ten  miles  to  the  southwest. 

'•Would  it  not  be  best  to  go  at  once  to 
Pain  Court?"  said  Gabriel.  "Celeste, 
after  this  frightful  day,  needs  food  and 
sleep  as  soon  as  she  can  get  them,  and  my 
aunt  Choutou  is  ready  for  her.  And  boats 
can  always  be  found  opposite  Pain  Court." 

All  the  young  men  were  ready  to  go  to 
Pain  Court.  They  really  thought,  even 
after  all  that  had  happened,  that  it  would 
be  wisest  to  deal  with  Alexis  Barbeau  at  a 


216  THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE. 

distance.  But  Celeste  herself  decided  the 
matter.  Gabriel  had  not  let  go  of  her.  lie 
kept  his  hand  on  her  as  if  afraid  she  might 
be  kidnaped  again. 

"  We  will  go  home  to  my  grandfather 
and  grandmother  au  Caho', "  said  Celeste. 
*'  I  will  not  go  anywhere  else." 

"  Bu"^  you  forget  that  Beauvois  is  au 
Caho'  ?  "  said  one  of  the  young  men. 

"  Oh,  I  never  can  forget  anything  con- 
nected with  this  day,"  said  Celeste,  and  the 
tears  ran  down  her  face.  "  I  never  can  for- 
get how  willingly  I  let  those  Puants  take 
me,  and  I  laughed  as  one  of  them  flung  me 
on  the  horse  behind  him.  We  were  nearly 
to  the  bluffs  before  I  spoke.  He  did  not 
say  anything,  and  the  others  all  had  eyes 
which  made  me  shudder.  I  pressed  my 
hands  on  his  buckskin  sides  and  said  to 
him,  '  Gabriel.'  And  he  turned  and  looked 
at  me.  I  never  had  seen  a  feature  of  his 
frightful  face  before.  And  then  I  under- 
stood that  the  real  Puants  had  me.  Do  you 
think   I  will  ever  marry  anybody  but  the 


THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE.  217 

man  who  took  me  away  from  tliom?  No. 
If  worst  conies  to  worst,  I  will  go  before 
the  high  altar  aud  the  image  of  the  Holy 
Virgin,  and  make  a  public  vow  never  to 
marry  anybody  else."      , 

The  young  men  flung  up  their  arms  in 
the  air  and  raised  a  hurrah.  Hats  they  had 
none  to  swing.  Their  cheeks  were  burnt 
by  the  afternoon  sun.  They  were  hungry 
and  thirsty,  and  so  tired  that  any  one  of 
them  could  have  flung  himself  on  the  old 
leaves  and  slept  as  soon  as  he  stretched  him- 
self. But  it  put  new  heart  in  them  to  see 
how  determined  she  was. 

So  the  horses  were  brought  up,  and  the 
captured  guns  were  packed  upon  some  of 
the  recovered  ponies.  There  were  some 
new  blankets  strapped  on  the  backs  of  these 
Indian  horses,  and  Gabriel  took  one  of  the 
blankets  and  secured  it  as  a  pillion  behind 
his  own  saddle  for  Celeste  to  ride  upon.  As 
they  rode  out  of  the  forest  shadow  they 
could  see  the  moon  just  coming  up  over  the 
hills  beyond  the  great  Cahokian  mound. 


218  THE  KIDNAPED   BRIDE. 

It  was  ini(liii«»lit  when  the  party  trampled 
across  tlio  rigole  bridge  into  Cahokia 
streets.  The  people  were  sleeping  with  one 
eye  open.  All  day,  stragglers  from  the  wed- 
ding procession  had  been  coming  in,  and  a 
company  was  organized  for  defense  and  pur- 
suit. They  had  heard  that  the  whole  Potta- 
wattamie nation  had  risen.  And  since  Ce- 
leste Barbeau  was  kidnaped,  anything  might 
be  expected.  Gabriel  and  his  men  were 
missed  early,  but  the  excitement  was  so  great 
that  their  unexplained  absence  was  added 
without  question  to  the  general  calamity. 
Candles  showed  at  once,  and  men  with  gun 
barrels  shining  in  the  moonlight  gathered 
quickly  from  all  directions. 

"  Friends,  friends  !  "  Celeste  called  out ; 
for  the  young  men  in  buckskin,  with  their 
booty  of  driven  horses,  were  enough  like 
Puants  to  be  in  danger  of  a  volley.  "  It  is 
Celeste.  Gabriel  Chartrant  and  his  men 
have  killed  the  Indians  and  brought  me 
back." 

"  It  is  Celeste   Barbeau  !    Gabriel  Char- 


THE  KlDNAVEl)  It  HIDE,  219 

trant  and  his  men  have  killed  the  Indians 
and  brought  her  back ! "  the  word  was 
passed  on. 

Iler  grandfather  hung  to  her  hand  on  one 
side  of  the  horse,  and  her  grandmother 
embraced  her  knees  on  the  other.  The  old 
father  was  in  his  red  nightcap  and  the  old 
mother  had  pulled  slippers  on  her  bare  feet. 
But  without  a  thought  of  their  appearance 
they  wept  aloud  and  fell  on  the  neighbors' 
necks,  and  the  neighbors  fell  upon  each 
others'  necks.  Some  kneeled  down  in  the 
dust  and  returned  thanks  to  the  saints  they 
had  invoked.  The  aubcrge  keeper  and  three 
old  men  who  smoked  their  pipes  steadily  on 
his  gallery  every  day  took  hold  of  hands 
and  danced  in  a  circle.  Children  who  had 
waked  to  shriek  with  fear  galloped  the 
streets  to  proclaim  at  every  window,  "  Ce- 
leste Barbeau  is  brought  back  !  "  The 
whole  town  was  in  a  delirium  of  joy.  Ma- 
nette  Le  Compt,  who  had  been  brought 
home  with  the  terrified  bridesmaids  and 
laughed  in  her  sleeve  all  day  because  she 


220  TtfK  KlDNAVEl)   lililDK. 

thought  Giibriel  and  his  nit'ii  were  the  Pu- 
ants,  leaned  against  a  wall  and  turned  sick. 
I  have  heard  her  say  she>  never  was  so  eon- 
fused  in  her  life  as  when  she  saw  the  driven 
horst's,  and  the  iirearins,  anil  those  <  oarse- 
haired  sealps  hanging  to  Le  Mauait  Pen- 
sonneau's  belt.  The  moon  showed  them  all 
distinctly.  Manette  had  thought  it  laugha- 
ble when  she  heard  that  Alexis  Barbeau  was 
shut  up  in  his  briek  house  at  Prairie  du 
Pont,  with  all  the  men  and  guns  lie  could 
nmster  to  protect  his  property  ;  but  now  she 
wei)t  indignantly  about  it. 

The  priest  had  been  the  first  man  in  the 
street,  having  lain  down  in  all  his  clothes 
except  his  cassock,  and  he  heartily  gave 
Celeste  and  the  young  men  his  blessing,  and 
counseled  everybody  to  go  to  bed  again. 
But  Celeste  reminded  them  that  she  was 
hungry,  and  as  for  the  rescuers,  they  had 
ridden  hard  all  day  without  a  mouthful  to 
eat.  So  the  whole  town  made  a  feast, 
everybody  bringing  the  best  he  had  to  Bar- 
beau's  house.     They  spread   the  table   and 


THE  KIDNAPED   tililDE.  221 

crowded  Jirouiid,  lcaniii<^  over  each  other^B 
Hlioulders  to  take  up  bits  in  their  hands  and 
cat  with  and  talk  to  the  young  people. 
Gabriel's  mother  sat  beside  him  with  her 
arm  around  liim,  antl  opposite  was  Celeste 
with  her  grandfather  and  grandmother,  and 
all  the  party  were  ranged  around.  The 
feathers  had  been  blown  out  of  their  hair 
by  that  long  chase,  but  their  buckskins 
were  soiled,  and  the  hastily  washed  colors 
yet  smeared  their  cars  and  uecks.  Yet  this 
supper  was  quite  like  a  bridal  feast.  Ah, 
my  child,  we  never  know  it  when  we  are 
standing  in  the  end  of  the  rainbow.  Ga- 
briel and  Celeste  might  live  a  hundred 
years,  but  they  could  never  be  quite  as 
hii})py  again. 

Paul  and  Jacques  Le  Page  sat  down 
with  the  other  young  men,  and  the  noise  of 
tongues  in  Barbeau's  house  could  be  heard 
out  by  the  rigole.  It  was  like  the  swarm- 
ing of  wild  bees.  Paid  and  Jacques  had 
waited  with  the  boat  until  nightfall.  They 
heard  the  firing  when  the  Puants  took  Ce- 


222  THE  KIDNAPED  DlilDE. 

leste,  and  watched  hour  after  hour  for 
some  one  to  appear  from  the  path ;  but  at 
last  concluding  that  Gabriel  had  been 
obliged  to  change  his  plan,  they  rowed 
back  to  Caho'. 

Claudis  Beauvois  was  the  only  person 
who  did  not  sit  up  talking  until  dawn. 
And  nobody  thought  about  him  until  noon 
the  next  day,  when  Captain  Jean  Saucier 
with  a  company  of  fusileers  rode  into  the 
village  from  Fort  Chartres. 

That  was  the  first  time  my  mother  ever 
saw  Captain  Saucier.  Your  uncle  Francois 
in  Kaskaskia,  he  was  also  afterward  Cap- 
tain Saucier.  I  was  not  born  until  they 
had  been  married  fifteen  years.  I  was  the 
last  of  their  children.  So  Celeste  Barbeau 
was  kidnaped  the  day  before  my  mother 
met  my  father. 

Glad  as  the  Cahokians  were  to  see  them, 
the  troops  were  no  longer  needed,  for  the 
Puants  had  gone.  They  were  frightened 
out  of  the  country.  Oh,  yes,  all  those  In- 
dians  wanted  was   a  good  whipping,   and 


THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE.  223 

they  got  it.  Alexis  Barbeau  had  come 
along  with  the  soldiers  from  Prairie  du 
Pont,  and  he  was  not  the  only  man  who 
had  made  use  of  military  escort.  Basil  Le 
Page  had  come  up  from  New  Orleans  in  the 
last  fleet  of  pirogues  to  Kaskaskia.  There 
he  heard  so  much  about  the  Puants  that  he 
bought  a  swift  horse  and  armed  himself  for 
the  ride  northward,  and  was  glad  when  he 
reached  Fort  Chartres  to  ride  into  Cahokia 
with  Captain  Saucier. 

You  might  say  Basil  Le  Page  came  in  at 
one  end  of  Cahokia  and  Claudis  Beauvois 
went  out  at  the  other.  For  they  knew  one 
another  directly,  and  it  was  noised  in  a 
minute  that  Basil  said  to  his  cousins  Paul 
and  Jacques :  — 

"  What  is  that  notorious  swindler  and 
gambler  doing  here  ?  He  left  New  Orleans 
suddenly,  or  he  would  be  in  prison  now,  and 
you  will  see  if  he  stoj)s  here  long  after 
recognizing  mo." 

^  Claudis  Beauvois  did  not  turn  around  in 
the   street   to  look  at  any  woman,  rich  or 


224  THE  KIDNAPED  BRIDE. 

poor,  when  he  left  Cahokia,  though  how  he 
left  was  not  certainly  known.  Alexis  Bar- 
beau  and  his  other  associates  knew  better 
how  their  pockets  were  left. 

Oh,  yes,  Alexis  Barbeau  was  very  willing 
for  Celeste  to  marry  Gabriel  after  that. 
He  provided  for  them  handsomely,  and 
gave  presents  to  each  of  the  young  men  who 
had  helped  to  take  his  daughter  from  the 
Puants ;  and  he  was  so  ashamed  of  the  son- 
in-law  he  had  wanted,  that  he  never  could 
endure  to  hear  the  man's  name  mentioned 
afterward.  Alexis  and  the  tavern-keeper 
used  —  when  they  were  taking  a  social  cup 
together  —  to  hug  each  other  without  a 
word.  The  fine  guest  who  had  lived  so 
long  at  the  auberge  and  drank  so  much 
good  wine,  which  was  as  fine  as  any  in  New 
Orleans,  without  expense,  was  as  sore  a 
memory  to  the  poor  landlord  as  to  the  rich 
landowner.  But  Celeste  and  Gabriel  — 
my  mother  said  when  they  were  married  the 
dancing  and  fiddling  and  feasting  were  kept 
up  an  entire  week  in  Caho\ 


PONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT. 

Jenieve  Lalotte  came  out  of  the  back 
Joor  of  her  little  house  on  Mackinac  beach. 
The  front  door  did  not  open  upon  either 
street  of  the  village ;  and  other  domiciles 
were  scattered  with  it  along  the  strand,  each 
little  homestead  having  a  front  inclosure 
palisaded  with  oaken  posts.  Wooded  heights 
sent  a  growth  of  bushes  and  young  trees 
down  to  the  pebble  rim  of  the  lake. 

It  had  been  raining,  and  the  island  was 
fresh  as  if  new  made.  Boats  and  bateaux, 
drawn  up  in  a  great  semicircle  about  the 
crescent  bay,  had  also  been  washed;  but 
they  kept  the  marks  of  their  long  voyages 
to  the  Illinois  Territory,  or  the  Lake  Supe- 
rior region,  or  Canada.  The  very  last  of 
the  winterers  were  in  with  their  bales  of 
furs,  and  some  of  these  men  were  now  roar- 
ing along  the  upper  street  in  new  clothes, 


226  FONT! ACS  LOOKOUT. 

exhilanited  by  spending  on  good  cheer  in 
one  month  the  money  it  took  them  eleven 
months  to  earn.  While  in  "  hyvernements," 
or  winter  quarters,  and  on  the  long  forest 
marches,  the  allowance  of  food  per  day,  for 
a  winterer,  was  one  quart  of  corn  and  two 
ounces  of  tallow.  On  this  fare  the  hardiest 
voyageurs  ever  known  threaded  a  pathless 
continent  and  made  a  great  traffic  possible. 
But  when  they  returned  to  the  front  of  the 
world,  —  that  distributing  point  in  the 
straits,  —  they  were  fiercely  importunate  for 
what  they  considered  the  best  the  world 
afforded. 

A  segment  of  rainbow  showed  over  one 
end  of  Round  Island.  The  sky  was  dull 
rose,  and  a  ship  on  the  eastern  horizon 
turned  to  a  ship  of  fire,  clean-cut  and  poised, 
a  glistening  object  on  a  black  bar  of  water. 
The  lake  was  still,  with  blackness  in  its 
depths.  The  American  flag  on  the  fort 
rippled,  a  thing  of  living  light,  the  stripes 
transparent.  High  pink  clouds  were  riding 
down  from  the  north,  their  flush  dying  as 


rONTlACS  LOOKOUT.  227 

they  piled  aloft.  There  were  shadings  of 
peacock  colors  in  the  shoal  water.  Jenieve 
enjoyed  this  sunset  beauty  of  the  island,  as 
she  ran  over  the  rolling  pebbles,  carrying 
some  leather  shoes  by  their  leather  strings. 
Her  face  was  eager.  She  lifted  the  shoes 
to  show  them  to  three  little  boys  playing 
on  the  edge  of  the  lake. 

"  Come  here.     See  what  I  have  for  you." 

"What  is  it?  "  inquired  the  eldest,  gazing 

)etwixt  the  hairs  scattered  on  his  face ;  he 

stood  with  his  back  to  the  wind.     His  bare 

shins  reddened   in   the  wash  of   the   lake, 

standing  beyond  its  rim  of  shining  gravel. 

"  Shoes,"  answered  Jenieve,  in  a  note 
triumphant  over  fate. 

"  What 's  shoes  ? "  asked  the  smallest 
half-breed,  tucking  up  his  smock  around  his 
middle. 

"  They  are  things  to  wear  on  your  feet," 
explained  Jenieve  ;  and  her  red-skinned  half- 
brothers  heard  her  with  incredulity.  She 
had  told  their  mother,  in  their  presence, 
that  she  intended  to  buy  the  children  some 


228  PONTTAC'S  LOOKOUT. 

shoes  when  she  got  pay  for  her  spinning ; 
and  they  thought  it  meant  fashions  from  the 
Fur  Company's  store  to  wear  to  mass,  hut 
never  suspected  she  had  set  her  mind  ou 
dark-looking  clamps  for  the  feet. 

"You  must  try  them  on,"  said  Jenieve, 
and  they  all  stepped  experimentally  from 
the  water,  reluctant  to  submit.  But  Jenieve 
was  mistress  in  the  house.  There  is  no 
appeal  from  a  sister  who  is  a  father  to  you, 
and  even  a  substitute  for  your  living  mother. 

"  You  sit  down  first,  Fran^rois,  and  wipe 
your  feet  with  this  cloth." 

The  absurdity  of  wiping  his  feet  before 
he  turned  in  for  the  night  tickled  Francois, 
though  he  was  of  a  strongly  aboriginal  cast, 
and  he  let  himself  grin.  Jenieve  helped 
him  struggle  to  encompass  his  lithe  feet 
with  the  clumsy  brogans. 

"  You  boys  are  living  like  Indians." 

"  We  are  Indians,"  asserted  Francois. 

"  But  you  are  French,  too.  You  are  my 
brothers.  I  want  you  to  go  to  mass  looking 
as  well  as  anybody." 


PON TI AC'S  LOOKOUT.  229 

Hitherto  their  object  in  life  had  been  to 
escape  mass.  Tliey  objected  to  increasing 
their  chances  of  chnrch-going.  Moccasins 
were  the  natnral  wear  of  human  beings,  and 
nobody  but  women  needed  even  moccasins 
until  cold  weather.  The  proud  look  of  an 
Iroquois  taking  spoils  disappeared  from  the 
face  of  the  youngest,  giving  way  to  uneasy 
anguish.  The  three  boys  sat  down  to  tug, 
Jenieve  going  encouragingly  from  one  to 
another.  Francois  lay  on  his  back  and 
pushed  his  heels  skyward.  Contempt  and 
rebellion  grew  also  in  the  faces  of  Gabriel 
and  Toussaint.  They  were  the  true  chil- 
dren of  Francois  Iroquois,  her  mother's 
second  husband,  who  had  been  wont  to 
lounge  about  Mackinac  village  in  dirty 
buckskins  and  a  calico  shirt  having  one  red 
and  one  blue  sleeve.  He  had  also  bought  a 
tall  silk  hat  at  the  Fur  Company's  store, 
and  he  wore  the  hat  under  his  blanket  when 
it  rained.  If  tobacco  failed  him,  he  scraped 
and  dried  willow  peelings,  and  called  them 
kinnickinnick.      This  worthy  relation  had 


230  rONTlAC'S  LOOKOUT. 

worked  no  increase  in  Jenieve's  home  except 
an  increase  of  children.  lie  frequently 
yelled  around  the  crescent  bay,  brandishing 
his  silk  hat  in  the  exaltation  of  nun.  And 
when  he  finally  fell  off  the  wharf  into  deep 
water,  and  was  picked  out  to  make  another 
mound  in  the  Indian  burying  -  ground, 
Jenieve  was  so  fiercely  elated  that  she  was 
afraid  to  confess  it  to  the  priest.  Strange 
matches  were  made  on  the  frontier,  and 
Indian  wives  were  commoner  than  any  other 
kind;  but  through  the  whole  mortifying- 
existence  of  this  Indian  husband  Jenieve 
avoided  the  sight  of  him,  and  (tailed  her 
mother  steadily  Mama  Lalotte.  The  girl 
had  remained  with  her  grandmother,  while 
Fian^ois  Iroquois  carried  off  his  wife  to  the 
Indian  village  on  a  western  height  of  the 
island.  Her  grandmother  had  died,  and 
Jenieve  continued  to  keep  house  on  the 
beach,  having  always  with  her  one  or  more 
of  the  half-breed  babies,  until  the  plunge 
of  Francois  Iroquois,  allowed  her  to  bring 
them  all  home  with  their  mother.      There 


PON TI ACS  LOOKOUT.  231 

was  but  one  f.arni  on  the  island,  and  Jenievc 
had  all  the  spinning  which  the  sheep 
afforded.  She  was  the  finest  spinner  in 
that  region.  Her  grandmother  had  taught 
her  to  spin  with  a  little  wheel,  as  they  still 
do  about  Quebec.  Her  pay  was  small. 
There  was  not  much  money  then  in  the 
country,  but  bills  of  credit  on  the  Fur  Com- 
pany's store  were  the  same  as  cash,  and  she 
managed  to  feed  her  mother  and  the  Indian's 
family.  Fish  were  to  be  had  for  the  catch- 
ing, and  she  could  get  corn-meal  and  vegeta- 
bles for  her  soup  pot  in  partial  exchange 
for  her  labor.  The  luxuries  of  life  on  the 
island  were  air  and  water,  and  the  glories  of 
evening  and  morning.  People  who  could 
buy  them  got  such  gorgeous  clothes  as  were 
brought  by  the  Company.  But  usually 
Jenieve  felt  happy  enough  when  she  put  on 
her  best  red  homespun  bodice  and  petticoat 
for  mass  or  to  go  to  dances.  She  did  wish 
for  shoes.  The  ladies  at  the  fort  had  shoes, 
with  heels  which  clicked  when  they  danced. 
Jenieve  could  dance  better,  but  she  always 


232  roNTiACs  lookout. 

felt  tlunr  oycs  on  her  inoecasins,  and  ciinio 
to  regard  shoes  as  the  chief  article  of  one's 
attire. 

Though  the  joy  of  shoeing  her  Lrothcrs 
was  not  to  be  put  oft",  she  had  not  intended 
to  let  them  keep  on  these  precious  brogans 
of  civilization  while  they  played  beside  the 
water.  But  she  suddenly  saw  Mama  La- 
lotte  walking  along  the  street  near  the  lake 
with  old  Michel  Pensonneau.  Beyond  these 
moving  figures  were  many  others,  of  en- 
gages and  Indians,  swarming  in  front  of 
the  Fur  Company's  great  warehouse.  Some 
were  talking  and  laughing ;  others  were  in 
a  line,  bearing  bales  of  furs  from  bateaux 
just  arrived  at  the  log  -  and  -  stone  wharf 
stretched  from  the  centre  of  the  bay.  But 
all  of  them,  and  curious  women  peeping 
from  their  houses  on  the  beach,  particularly 
Jean  Bati'  McClure's  wife,  could  see  that 
Michel  Pensonneau  was  walking  with  Mama 
Lalotte. 

This  sight  struck  cold  down  Jenieve's 
spine.     Mama  Lalotte  was  really  the  heavi- 


PON TI ACS  LOOKOUT.  233 

est  charge  alio  bad.  Not  twenty  minutes 
before  bad  that  fligbty  creature  been  set  to 
watcb  the  supper  pot,  and  here  she  was, 
mincing  along,  and  fixing  ber  pale  blue 
laughing  eyes  on  Michel  Pensonneau,  and 
bobbing  her  curly  flaxen  head  at  every  word 
ho  spoke.  A  daughter  wlio  has  a  marrying 
mother  on  her  hands  may  become  morbidly 
anxious ;  Jenieve  felt  she  should  have  no 
peace  of  mind  during  the  month  the 
coureurs-de-bois  remained  on  the  island. 
Whether  they  arrived  early  or  late,  they 
had  soon  to  be  off  to  the  winter  hunting- 
grounds  ;  yet  here  was  an  emergency. 

*'  Mama  Lalotte  !  "  called  Jenieve.  Iler 
strong  young  fingers  beckoned  with  author- 
ity.    "  Come  here  to  me.     I  want  you." 

The  giddy  parent,  startled  and  conscious, 
turned  a  conciliating  smile  that  way.  "  Yes, 
Jenieve,"  she  answered  obediently,  "  I 
come."  But  she  continued  to  pace  by  the 
side  of  Michel  Pensonneau. 

Jenieve  desired  to  grasp  her  by  the  shoul- 
der and  walk  her  into  the  house  ;  but  when 


234  PON TI ACS  LOOKOUT. 

tlio  world,  espocially  ircjiii  Hati'  McClure's 
wife,  is  watching  to  see  how  you  manage  aii 
unruly  mother,  it  is  necessary  to  use  some 
adroitness. 

"  Will  you  please  come  here,  dear  Mama 
Lalotte?    Toussaint  wants  you." 

"  No,  I  don't  I  "  shouted  Toussaint.  "  It 
is  Michel  Pensonneau  1  want,  to  make  me 
some  boats." 

The  girl  did  not  hesitate.  She  inter- 
cepted the  couple,  and  took  her  mother's 
arm  in  hers.  The  desperation  of  her  act 
appeared  to  her  while  she  was  walking 
Mama  Lalotte  home ;  still,  if  nothing  but 
force  will  restrain  a  parent,  you  must  use 
force. 

Michel  Pensonneau  stood  squarely  in  his 
moccasins,  turning  redder  and  redder  at  the 
laugh  of  his  cronies  before  the  warehouse. 
He  was  dressed  in  new  buckskins,  and  their 
tawny  brightness  made  his  florid  cheeks 
more  evident.  Michel  Pensonneau  had  been 
brought  up  by  the  Cadottes  of  Sault  Ste. 
Marie,  and  he  had  rich  relations  at  Cahokia, 


rONTJACS  LOOKOUT.  235 

in  the  Illinois  Torritoiy.  If  ho  was  not  as 
good  as  tho  family  of  Franc^ois  Iroquois,  ho 
wanted  to  know  tho  reason  why.  It  is  true, 
he  was  past  forty  and  a  bachelor.  To  be  a 
bachelor,  in  that  region,  where  Indian  wives 
were  so  i)lenty  and  so  easily  got  rid  of, 
might  bring  some  reproach  on  a  man. 
Michel  had  begun  to  see  that  it  did.  He 
was  an  easy,  goi-mandizing,  good  fellow, 
shapelessly  fat,  and  he  never  had  stirred 
himself  during  his  month  of  freedom  to  do 
any  courting.  But  Frenchmen  of  his  class 
considered  fifty  the  limit  of  an  active  life. 
It  behooved  him  now  to  begin  looking 
around;  to  prepare  a  fireside  for  himself. 
Michel  was  a  good  clerk  to  his  employers. 
Cmnbrous  though  his  body  might  be,  when 
he  was  in  the  woods  he  never  shirked  any 
hardship  to  secure  a  specially  fine  bale  of 
furs. 

Mama  Lalotte,  propelled  against  her  will, 
sat  down,  trembling,  in  the  house.  Jenieve, 
trembling  also,  took  the  wooden  bowls  and 
spoons  from  a  shelf  and  ladled  out  soup  for 


23G  PONTIACS  LOOKOUT. 

the  evening  meal.  Mama  Lalotte  was  al- 
ways willing  to  have  the  work  done  without 
trouble  to  herself,  and  she  sat  on  a  three- 
legged  stool,  like  a  guest.  The  supper  pot 
boiled  in  the  centre  of  the  house,  hanging 
on  the  crane  which  was  fastened  to  a  beam 
overhead.  Smoke  from  the  clear  fire  passed 
that  richly  darkened  transverse  of  timber 
as  it  ascended,  and  escaped  through  a  hole  in 
the  bark  roof.  The  Fur  Company  had  a 
great  building  with  chimneys ;  but  poor 
folks  were  glad  to  have  a  cedar  hut  of  one 
room,  covered  with  bark  all  around  and  on 
top.  A  fire-pit,  or  earthen  hearth,  was  left 
in  the  centre,  and  the  nearer  the  floor  could 
be  brought  to  this  hole,  without  danger,  the 
better  the  house  was.  On  winter  nights, 
fat  French  and  half-breed  children  sat  with 
heels  to  this  sunken  altar,  and  heard  tales 
of  massacre  or  privation  which  made  the 
family  bunks  along  the  w^all  seem  couches 
of  luxury.  It  was  the  aboriginal  hut  pat- 
terned after  his  Indian  brother's  by  the 
Frenchman;   and  the  succession  of  British 


PON TI ACS  LOOKOUT.  237 

and  American  powers  had  not  yet  improved 
it.  To  Jenieve  herself,  the  crisis  before  her, 
so  insignificant  against  the  background  of 
that  historic  island,  was  more  important 
than  massacre  or  conquest. 

"  Mama,"  —  she  spoke  tremulously,  — 
"  I  was  obliged  to  bring  you  in.  It  is  not 
proper  to  be  seen  on  the  street  with  an  en- 
gag(3.  The  town  is  now  full  of  these  bush- 
lopers." 

"  Bush-lopers,  mademoiselle  !  "  The  little 
flaxen -haired  woman  had  a  sliriU  voice. 
"  What  was  your  own  father  ?  " 

"He  was  a  clerk,  madame,"  maintained 
the  girl's  softer  treble,  "  and  always  kept 
good  credit  for  his  family  at  the  Company's 
store.'* 

"  I  see  no  difference.     They  are  all  the 


same." 


"Franc^ois  Iroquois  was  not  the  same." 
As  the  girl  said  this  she  felt  a  powder-like 
flash  from  her  own  eyes. 

Mama  Lalotte  was  herself  a  little  ashamed 
of  the  Fraii9ois  Iroquois   alliance,  but  she 


238  rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT. 

answered,  "  He  let  me  walk  outside  the 
house,  at  least.  You  allow  me  no  amuse- 
ment at  all.  I  cannot  even  talk  over  the 
fence  to  Jean  Bati'  McClure's  wife." 

"  Mama,  you  do  not  understand  the  dan- 
ger of  all  these  things,  and  I  do.  Jean 
Bati'  McClure's  wife  will  be  certain  to  get 
you  into  trouble.  She  is  not  a  proper 
woman  for  you  to  associate  with.  Her 
mind  runs  on  nothing  but  match-making." 

"  Speak  to  her,  then,  for  yourself.  I  wish 
you  would  get  married." 

"  I  never  shall,"  declared  Jenieve.  "  I 
have  seen  the  folly  of  it." 

"  You  never  have  been  young,"  com- 
plained Mama  Lalotte.  "  You  don't  know 
how  a  young  person  feels. 

"  I  let  you  go  to  the  dances,"  argued  Je- 
nieve. "  You  have  as  good  a  time  as  any 
woman  on  the  island.  But  old  Michel  Pen- 
sonneau,"  she  added  sternly,  '  is  not  settling 
down  to  smoke  his  pipe  for  the  remainder  of 
his  life  on  this  doorstep." 

"  Monsieur  Pensonneau  is  not  old." 


rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT.  239 

"  Do  you  take  up  for  him,  Mama  Lalotte, 
in  spite  of  me?  "  In  the  girl's  rich  bru- 
nette face  the  scarlet  of  the  cheeks  deep- 
ened. "  Am  I  not  more  to  you  than  Mi- 
chel Pensonneau  or  any  other  engage  ?  He 
is  old ;  he  is  past  forty.  Would  I  call  him 
old  if  he  were  no  more  than  twenty?  " 

"  Every  one  cannot  be  only  twenty  and 
a  young  agent,"  retorted  her  elder ;  and 
Jenieve's  ears  and  throat  reddened,  also. 

"  Have  I  not  done  my  best  for  you  and 
the  boys  ?  Do  you  think  it  does  not  hurt 
me  to  be  severe  with  you  ?  " 

Mama  Lalotte  flounced  around  on  her 
stool,  but  made  no  reply.  She  saw  peeping 
and  smiling  at  the  edge  of  the  door  a  neigh- 
bor's face,  that  encouraged  her  insubordina- 
tions. Its  broad,  good-natured  upper  lip 
thinly  veiled  with  hairs,  its  fleshy  eyelids 
and  thick  brows,  expressed  a  strength  which 
she  had  not,  yet  would  gladly  imitate. 

"  Jenieve  Lalotte,"  spoke  the  neighbor, 
"  before  you  finish  whipping  your  mother 
you  had  better   run    and    whip   the  boys. 


240  PONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT. 

They  are  throwing  their  shoes  in  the 
lake." 

"  Their  shoes  !  "  Jenieve  cried,  and  she 
scarcely  looked  at  Jean  Bati'  McClure's 
wife,  but  darted  outdoors  along  the  beach. 

"  Oh,  children,  have  you  lost  your  shoes  ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Toussaint,  looking  up 
with  a  countenance  full  of  enjoyment. 

"  Where  are  they  ?  " 

"  In  the  lake." 

"  You  did  n't  throw  your  new  shoes  in  the 
lake?" 

"  We  took  them  for  boats,"  said  Gabriel 
freely.  "But  they  are  not  even  fit  for 
boats." 

"I  threw  mine  as  far  as  I  could,"  observed 
Francois.  "  You  can't  make  anything  float 
in  them." 

She  could  see  one  of  them  stranded  on 
the  lake  bottom,  loaded  with  stones,  its 
strings  playing  back  and  forth  in  the  clear 
water.  The  others  were  gone  out  to  the 
straits.  Jenieve  remembered  all  her  toil 
for  them,  and  her  denial  of  her  own  wants 


rONTIACS  LOOKOUT.  241 

that  she  might  give  to  these  half-savage 
boys,  who  considered  nothing  lost  that  they 
threw  into  the  lake. 

She  turned  around  to  run  to  the  house. 
But  there  stood  Jean  Bati'  McClure's  wife, 
talking  through  the  door,  and  encouraging 
her  mother  to  walk  with  coureurs-de-bois. 
The  girl's  heart  broke.  She  took  to  the 
bushes  to  hide  her  weeping,  and  ran  through 
them  towards  the  path  she  had  followed  so 
many  times  when  her  only  living  kindred 
were  at  the  Indian  village.  The  pine 
woods  received  her  into  their  ascending 
heights,  and  she  mounted  towards  sunset. 

Panting  from  her  long  walk,  Jenieve 
came  out  of  the  woods  upon  a  grassy  open 
cliff,  called  by  the  islanders  Pontiac's  Look- 
out, because  the  great  war  chief  used  to 
stand  on  that  spot,  forty  years  before,  and 
gaze  southward,  as  if  he  never  could  give 
up  his  hope  of  the  union  of  his  people. 
Jenieve  knew  the  story.  She  had  built 
playhouses  here,  when  a  child,  without 
being  afraid  of  the  old  chief's  lingering  in- 


242  rONTIAC'S  LOO J\ OUT, 

fluence  ;  for  she  seemed  to  understand  his 
trouble,  and  this  night  she  was  more  in  sym- 
pathy with  Pontiac  than  ever  before  in  her 
life.  She  sat  down  on  the  grass,  wiping 
the  tears  from  her  hot  cheeks,  her  dark 
eyes  brooding  on  the  lovely  straits.  There 
might  be  more  beautiful  sights  in  the  world, 
but  Jenieve  doubted  it;  and  a  white  gull 
drifted  across  her  vision  like  a  moving  star. 

Pontiac's  Lookout  had  been  the  spot 
from  which  she  watched  her  father's  bateau 
disappear  behind  Round  Island.  He  used 
to  go  by  way  of  Detroit  to  the  Canadian 
woods.  Here  she  wept  out  her  first  grief 
for  his  death ;  and  here  she  stopped,  coming 
and  going  between  her  mother  and  grand- 
mother. The  cliff  down  to  the  beach  was 
clothed  with  a  thick  growth  which  took 
away  the  terror  of  falling,  and  many  a  time 
Jenieve  had  thrust  her  bare  legs  over  the 
edge  to  sit  and  enjoy  the  outlook. 

There  were  old  women  on  the  island 
who  could  remember  seeing  Pontiac.  Her 
grandmother  had  told  her  how  he   looked. 


rONTlACS  LOOKOUT.  243 

She  had  hoard  that,  though  his  bones  had 
been  buried  forty  years  beside  the  Missis- 
sippi, he  yet  came  back  to  the  Lookout  every 
night  during  that  summer  month  when  all 
the  tribes  assembled  at  the  island  to  receive 
money  from  a  new  government.  He  could 
not  lie  still  while  they  took  a  little  metal 
and  ammunition  in  their  hands  in  exchange 
for  their  country.  As  for  the  tribes,  they 
enjoyed  it.  Jenieve  could  see  their  night 
fires  begin  to  twinkle  on  Round  Island  and 
Bois  Blanc,  and  the  rising  hubbub  of  their 
carnival  came  to  her  like  echoes  across  the 
strait.  There  was  one  growing  star  on  the 
long  hooked  reef  which  reached  out  from 
Round  Island,  and  figures  of  Indians  were 
silhouetted  against  the  lake,  running  back 
and  forth  along  that  high  stone  ridge. 
Evening  coolness  stole  up  to  Jenieve, 
for  the  w^hole  water  world  was  purpling; 
and  sweet  pine  and  cedar  breaths,  humid 
and  invisible,  were  all  around  her.  Her 
trouble  grew  small,  laid  against  the  granite 
breast  of  the   island,  and  the  woods  dark- 


244  roNTTAC's  lookout. 

eiied  ancl  sighed  behind  her.  Jeniove  could 
hear  the  shout  of  some  Indian  boy  at  the 
distant  village.  She  was  not  afraid,  but  her 
shoulders  contracted  with  a  shiver.  The 
place  began  to  smell  rankly  of  sweetbrier. 
There  was  no  sweetbrier  on  the  cliff  or  in 
the  woods,  though  many  bushes  grew  on 
alluvial  slopes  around  the  bay.  «Tenieve 
loved  the  plant,  and  often  stuck  a  i)iece  of 
it  in  her  bosom.  But  this  was  a  cold  smell, 
striking  chill  to  the  bones.  Her  flesh  and 
hair  and  clothes  absorbed  the  scent,  and  it 
cooled  her  nostrils  with  its  strange  ether,  the 
breath  of  sweetbrier,  which  always  before 
seemed  tinctured  by  the  sim.  She  had  a 
sensation  of  moving  side  wise  out  of  her  own 
person  ;  and  then  she  saw  the  chief  Pontiac 
standing  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  Jenieve 
knew  his  back,  and  the  feathers  in  his  hair 
which  the  wind  did  not  move.  His  head 
turned  on  a  pivot,  sweeping  the  horizon  from 
St.  Ignace,  where  the  white  man  first  set  foot, 
to  Round  Island,  where  the  shameful  fires 
burned.     His  hard,  set  features  were  silver 


rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT.  245 

color  rather  than  copper,  as  she  saw  his  pro- 
file against  the  sky.  His  arms  were  foldetl 
in  his  blanket.  Jenievo  was  as  sure  that 
she  saw  Pontiac  as  she  was  sure  of  the  rock 
on  which  she  sat.  She  poked  one  finger 
through  the  sward  to  the  hardness  under- 
neath. The  rock  was  below  her,  and 
Pontiac  stood  before  her.  He  turned  his 
head  back  from  Round  Island  to  St.  Ignace. 
The  wind  blew  against  him,  and  the  brier 
odor,  sickening  sweet,  i)oured  over  Jenieve. 

She  heard  the  dogs  bark  in  Mackinac 
village,  and  leaves  moving  behind  her,  and 
the  wash  of  water  at  the  base  of  the  island 
which  always  sounded  like  a  small  rain. 
Instead  of  feeling  afraid,  she  was  in  a  night- 
mare of  sorrow.  Pontiac  had  loved  the 
French  almost  as  well  as  he  loved  his  own 
people.  She  breathed  the  sweetbrier  scent, 
her  neck  stretched  forward  and  her  dark 
eyes  fixed  on  him ;  and  as  his  head  turned 
back  from  St.  Ignace  his  whole  body  moved 
with  it,  and  he  looked  at  Jenieve. 

His  eyes  were  like  a  cat's  in  the  purple 


24G  roNTiACs  lookout. 

darkness,  or  like  that  lieatless  fire  which 
shines  on  rotting  bark.  The  lioar-frosted 
conntenanee  was  noble  even  in  its  most  bru- 
tal lines.  Jenieve,  without  knowing  she  was 
saying  a  word,  spoke  out :  — 

"  Monsieur  the  chief  Pontiac,  what  ails 
the  French  and  Indians  ?  " 

"  Malatat,"  answered  Pontiac.  The  word 
came  at  her  with  force. 

"  Monsieur  the  chief  Pontiac,"  repeated 
Jenieve,  struggling  to  understand,  "I  say, 
what  ails  the  French  and  Indians  ?  " 

*'  Malatat ! "  His  guttural  cry  rang 
through  the  bushes.  Jenieve  was  so  startled 
that  she  sprung  back,  catching  herself  on 
her  hands.  But  without  the  least  motion  of 
walking  he  was  far  westward,  showing  like 
a  phosphorescent  bar  through  the  trees,  and 
still  moving  on,  until  the  pallor  was  lost 
from  sight. 

Jenieve  at  once  began  to  cross  herself. 
She  had  forgotten  to  do  it  before.  The 
rankness  of  sweetbrier  followed  her  some 
distance  down  the  path,  and  she  said  prayers 
aU  the  way  home. 


rONTIACS  LOOKOUT.  247 

You  cannot  talk  with  j^reat  spirits  and 
continue  to  chafe  about  little  things.  The 
boys*  shoes  and  Mania  Lalotte's  lightness 
were  the  same  as  forgotten.  Jenieve  en- 
tered her  house  with  dew  in  her  hair,  and 
an  unterrified  freshness  of  body  for  what- 
ever might  happen.  She  was  certain  she 
had  seen  Pontiac,  but  she  would  never  tell 
anybody  to  have  it  laughed  at.  There  was 
no  candle  burning,  and  the  fire  had  almost 
died  under  the  supper  pot.  She  put  a 
couple  of  sticks  on  the  coals,  more  for  their 
blaze  than  to  heat  her  food.  But  the  Mack- 
inac night  was  chill,  and  it  was  ])leasant  to 
see  the  interior  of  her  little  home  flickering 
to  view.  Candles  were  lighted  in  many 
houses  along  the  beach,  and  amongst  them 
Mama  Lalotte  was  probably  roaming,  —  for 
she  had  left  the  door  open  towards  the  lake, 
—  and  the  boys'  voices  could  be  heard  with 
others  in  the  direction  of  the  log  wharf. 

Jenieve  took  her  supper  bowl  and  sat 
down  on  the  doorstep.  The  light  cloud  of 
smoke,  drawn  up  to  the  roof-hole,  ascended 


248  roNTiACs  lookout. 

behind  luu',  forming  an  aznrt;  gray  curtain 
.  against  wliich  lior  figure  sliowcd,  round- 
wristod  and  full-throated.  The  stai'likc 
camp  (Ires  on  Round  Island  were  before  her, 
and  the  incessant  wash  of  the  water  on  its 
pebbles  was  company  to  her.  Somebody 
knocked  on  the  front  door. 

"  It  is  that  insolent  Michel  Penscmneau," 
thought  Jenicve.  "When  he  is  tired  ho 
will  go  away."  Yet  she  was  not  greatly 
surprised  when  the  visitor  ceased  knocking 
and  came  around  the  palisades. 

"Good-evening,  Monsieur  Crooks,"  said 
Jenieve. 

"  Good-evening,  mademoiselle,"  responded 
Monsieur  Crooks,  and  he  leaned  against  the 
hut  side,  cap  in  hand,  where  he  could  look 
at  her.  lie  had  never  yet  been  asked  to 
enter  the  house.  Jenieve  continued  to  eat 
her  supper. 

"  I  hope  monsieur  your  uncle  is  well  ?  " 

*'  My  uncle  is  well.  It  is  n*t  necessary  for 
me  to  inquire  :J:out  madame  your  mother, 
for  I  have  just  seen  her  sitting  on  McClure's 
-   doorstep." 


rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT.  249 

"Oh,"  Hiiid  Jenicvo. 

Tlio  young  man  nliook  his  cap  in  a  restiess 
hand.  Thoupfli  he  Hpoko  French  easily,  he 
was  not  dressed  like  an  en«^a|»e,  and  ho 
showed  through  the  dark  the  white  skin  of 
the  Saxon. 

"  Mademoiselle  Jenieve,"  —  he  spoke  sud- 
denly, —  *'  you  kiu)W  my  unele  is  well  estab- 
lished as  agent  of  the  Fur  Comi)any,  and  as 
his  assistant  I  expect  to  stay  here." 

"Yes,  monsieur.  Did  you  take  in  some 
fine  bales  of  furs  to-day  ?  " 

"  That  is  not  what  I  was  going  to  say." 

"Monsieur  Crooks,  you  speak  all  lan- 
guages, don't  you  ?  " 

"  Not  all.  A  few.  I  know  a  little  of 
nearly  every  one  of  our  Indian  dialects." 

"  Monsieur,  what  does  '  nialatat '  mean  ?  " 

"'Malatat'?  That's  a  Chii)pewa  word. 
You  will  often  hear  that.  It  means  '  good 
for  nothing.' " 

"  But  I  have  heard  that  the  chief  Pontiac 
was  an  Ottawa." 

The  young  man  was  not  interested  in 
Pontiac. 


250  PON TI ACS  LOOKOUT. 

"  A  chief  would  know  a  great  many  dia- 
lects," he  replied.  "Chippewa  was  the 
tongue  of  this  island.  But  what  I  wanted 
to  say  is  that  I  have  had  a  serious  talk  with 
the  agent.  He  is  entirely  willing  to  have 
me  settle  down.  And  he  says,  what  is  the 
truth,  that  you  are  the  best  and  i3rettiest 
girl  at  the  straits.  I  have  spoken  my  mind 
often  enough.  Why  shouldn't  we  get  mar- 
ried right  away  ?  " 

Jenieve  set  her  bowl  and  spoon  inside  the 
house,  and  folded  her  arms. 

"Monsieur,  have  I  not  told  you  many 
times?  I  cannot  marry.  I  have  a  family 
already." 

The  young  agent  struck  his  cap  impa- 
tiently against  the  bark  weather-boarding. 
"You  are  the  most  offish  girl  I  ever  saw. 
A  man  cannot  get  near  enough  to  you  to 
talk  reason." 

"  It  would  be  better  if  you  did  not  come 
down  here  at  all.  Monsieur  Crooks,"  said 
Jenieve.  "  The  neighbors  will  be  saying  I 
am  setting  a  bad  example  to  my  mother." 


PON TI AC'S  LOOKOUT.  251 

"  Bring  your  mother  up  to  the  Fur  Com- 
pany's quarters  with  you,  and  the  neighbors 
will  no  longer  have  a  chance  to  put  mischief 
into  her  head." 

Jenieve  took  him  seriously,  though  she 
had  often  suspected,  from  what  she  could  see 
at  the  fort,  that  Americans  had  not  the  cus- 
tom of  marrying  an  entire  family. 

"  It  is  really  too  fine  a  place  for  us." 

Young  Crooks  laughed.  Squaws  had 
lived  in  the  Fur  Company's  quarters,  but 
he  would  not  mention  this  fact  to  the  girl. 

His  eyes  dwelt  fondly  on  her  in  the  dark- 
ness, for  though  the  fire  behind  her  had 
again  sunk  to  embers,  it  cast  up  a  little 
glow ;  and  he  stood  entirely  in  the  star- 
embossed  outside  world.  It  is  not  safe  to 
talk  in  the  dark :  you  tell  too  much.  The 
primitive  instinct  of  truth-speaking  revives 
in  force,  and  the  restraints  of  another's 
presence  are  gone.  You  speak  from  the 
unseen  to  the  unseen  over  leveled  barriers 
of  reserve.  Young  Crooks  had  scarcely  said 
that  place  was  nothing,  and  he  would  rather 


252  roNTiAcs  lookout. 

live  in  that  little  house  with  Jenieve  than 
in  the  Fur  Company's  quarters  without  her, 
when  she  exclaimed  openly,  "  And  have 
old  Michel  Pensonneau  put  over  you !  " 

The  idea  of  Michel  Pensonneau  taking 
jirecedence  of  him  as  master  of  the  cedar 
Imt  was  delicious  to  the  American,  as  he  re- 
called the  engage's  respectful  slouch  while 
receiving  the  usual  bill  of  credit. 

"One  may  laugh,  monsieur.  I  laugh 
myself ;  it  is  better  than  crying.  But  it  is 
the  truth  that  Mama  Lalotte  is  more  care 
to  me  than  all  the  boys.  I  have  no  peace 
except  when  she  is  asleep  in  bed." 

"  There  is  no  harm  in  Madame  Lalotte." 

"  You  are  right,  monsieur.  eTean  Bati' 
McClure's  wife  puts  all  the  mischief  in  her 
head.  She  would  even  learn  to  spin,  if  that 
woman  would  let  her  alone." 

"  And  I  never  heard  anv  harm  of  Michel 
Pensonneau.  He  is  a  good  enough  fellow, 
and  he  has  more  to  his  credit  on  the  Com- 
pany's books  than  any  other  engag<i  now  on 
the  island." 


rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT.  253 

"  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  have  him 
sit  ami  smoke  his  pipe  the  rest  of  his  days 
on  your  doorstep  ?  " 

"  No,  I  would  n't,"  confessed  the  young 
agent.  "  Michel  is  a  saving  man,  and  he 
uses  very  mean  tohacco,  the  cheapest  in  the 
house." 

"  You  see  how  I  am  situated,  monsieur. 
It  is  no  use  to  talk  to  me." 

"  But  Michel  Pensonneau  is  not  going 
to  trouble  you  long.  He  has  relations  at 
Cahokia,  in  the  Illinois  Territory,  and  he 
is  fitting  himself  out  to  go  there  to  settle." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  this,  monsieur  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  am,  for  we  have  already 
made  him  a  bill  of  credit  to  our  correspond- 
ent at  Cahokia.  He  wants  very  few  goods 
to  carry  across  the  Chicago  portage." 

"Monsieur,  how  soon  does  he  intend  to 
go?" 

"  On  the  first  schooner  that  sails  to  the 
'  head  of  the  lake ;  so  he  may  set  out  any 
(lay.  Michel  is  anxious  to  try  life  on  the 
Mississippi,  and  his  three  years'  engage- 
ment with  the  Company  is  just  ended." 


254  roNTiAC's  lookout. 

"  I  also  am  anxious  to  have  him  try  life 
on  the  Mississippi,"  said  Jenieve,  and  she 
drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  "Why  did 
you  not  tell  me  this  before  ?  '* 

"  How  could  I  know  you  were  interested 
in  him  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  a  bad  man,"  she  admitted 
kindly.  "  I  can  see  that  he  means  very  well. 
If  the  McClures  would  go  to  the  Illinois 
Territory  with  him  —  But,  INIonsieur 
Crooks,"  Jenieve  asked  sharply,  "  do  people 
sometimes  make  sudden  marriages  ?  " 

"  In  my  case  they  have  not,"  sighed  the 
young  man.  "  But  I  think  well  of  sudden 
marriages  myself.  The  priest  comes  to  the 
island  this  week." 

"  Yes,  and  I  must  take  the  children  to 
confession." 

"What  arc  you  going  to  do  with  me, 
Jenieve  ?  " 

"I  am  going  to  say   good-night   to  you, 
and  shut  my  door."     She  stepped  into  the    ' 
house. 

"  Not  yet.     It  is  only  a  little  while  since 


rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT.  255 

they  fired  the  sunset  gun  at  the  fort.  You 
are  not  kind  to  shut  nie  out  the  moment  I 
come." 

SJie  gave  him  lier  liand,  as  slie  always  did 
when  she  said  good-iiigiit,  and  he  prolonged 
his  hold  of  it. 

"  You  are  full  of  sweetbrier.  I  did  n't 
know  it  grew  down  here  on  the  beaeh." 

"  It  never  did  grow  here,  Monsieur 
Crooks." 

"  You  shall  have  plenty  of  it  in  your 
garden,  when  you  come  home  with  me." 

"  Oh,  go  away,  and  let  me  shut  my  door, 
monsieur.  It  seems  no  use  to  tell  you  I 
cannot  come." 

"  No  use  at  all.  Until  you  come,  then, 
good-night." 

Seldom  are  two  days  alike  on  the  island. 
Before  sunrise  the  lost  dews  of  paradise 
always  sweeten  those  scented  woods,  and 
the  birds  begin  to  remind  you  of  something 
you  heard  in  another  life,  but  have  forgot- 
ten. Jenieve  loved  to  open  her  door  and 
surprise  the  east.     She  stepped  out  the  next 


25G  rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT. 

morning  to  fill  her  pail.  There  was  a  lake 
of  translucent  cloud  beyond  the  water  lake  : 
the  first  unruffled,  and  the  second  wind- 
stirred.  The  sun  pushed  up,  a  flattened  red 
ball,  from  the  lake  of  steel  ripples  to  the 
lake  of  calm  clouds.  Nearer,  a  schooner 
with  its  sails  down  stood  black  as  ebony 
between  two  bars  of  light  drawn  across  the 
water,  which  lay  dull  and  bleak  towards  the 
shore.  The  addition  of  a  schooner  to  the 
scattered  fleet  of  sailboats,  bateaux,  and 
birch  canoes  made  Jenieve  laugh.  It  must 
have  arrived  from  Sault  Ste.  Marie  in  the 
night.  She  had  hopes  of  getting  rid  of 
Michel  Pensonneau  that  very  day.  Since 
he  was  going  to  Cahokia,  she  felt  stinging 
regret  for  the  way  she  had  treated  him 
before  the  whole  village;  yet  her  mother 
could  not  be  sacrificed  to  politeness.  Ex- 
cept his  capacity  for  marrying,  there  was 
really  no  harm  in  the  old  fellow,  as  Mon- 
sieur Crooks  had  said. 

The  humid  blockhouse  and  walls  of  the 
fort  high  above  the  bay  began  to  glisten  in 


PON TI AC'S  LOOKOUT.  257 

emerging  suiiHglit,  iiiul  Jenieve  determiiiccl 
not  to  1)0  hard  on  Mama  Lalottc  tliat  day. 
If  Michel  came  to  say  good-by,  she  would 
shake  his  hand  herself.  It  was  not  agree- 
able for  a  woman  so  fond  of  company  to  sit 
in  the  house  with  noboby  1)ut  her  daugh- 
ter. Mama  Lalotte  did  not  love  the  pine 
woods,  or  any  place  where  she  would  be 
alone.  But  Jenieve  could  sit  and  spin  in 
solitude  all  day,  and  think  of  that  chill  sil- 
ver face  she  had  seen  at  Pontiac's  Lookout, 
and  the  floating  away  of  the  figure,  a  phos- 
phorescent bar  through  the  trees,  and  of 
that  spoken  word  which  had  denounced  the 
French  and  Indians  as  good  for  nothing. 
She  decided  to  tell  the  priest,  even  if  he 
rebuked  her.  It  did  not  seem  any  stranger 
to  Jenieve  than  many  things  which  were 
called  natural,  such  as  the  morning  miracles 
in  the  eastern  sky,  and  the  growth  of  the 
boys,  her  dear  torments.  To  »Tenieve's  seri- 
ous eyes,  trained  by  her  grandmother,  it 
was  not  as  strange  as  the  sight  of  Mama 
Lalotte,  a  child  in   maturity,  always   crav- 


258  roNTiAC's  lookout. 

iiig  amusement,  and  easily  led  by  any  chance 
hand. 

The  priest  had  come  to  Mac^kinac  in  the 
schooner  during  tlic  night,  lie  combined 
this  parish  with  others  more  or  less  distant, 
and  he  opened  the  chapel  and  began  his 
duties  as  soon  as  he  arrived.  Mama  La- 
lotte  herself  offered  to  dress  the  boys  for 
confession.  She  put  their  best  clothes  on 
them,  and  then  she  took  out  all  her  own 
finery.  Jenieve  had  no  suspicion  while  the 
little  figure  preened  and  burnished  itself, 
making  up  for  the  lack  of  a  mirror  by 
curves  of  the  neck  to  look  itself  well  over. 
Mama  Lalotte  thought  a  great  dcjd  about 
what  she  wore.  She  was  pleas-^d,  and  her 
flaxen  curls  danced.  She  kissed  »Tenieve  on 
both  cheeks,  as  if  there  had  been  no  quar- 
rel, though  unpleasant  things  never  lingered 
in  her  memory.  And  she  made  the  boys 
kiss  Jenieve  ;  and  while  they  were  saddened 
by  clothes,  she  also  made  them  say  they 
were  sorry  about  the  shoes. 

By  sunset,  the  schooner,  which  had  sat 


rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT.  259 

in  the  .straits  all  day,  hoisted  its  sails  and 
rounded  the  hooked  point  of  tho  opposite 
island.  The  gun  at  the  fort  was  like  a  part- 
ing salute,  and  a  shout  was  raised  by  cou- 
reurs-de-bois  thronging  the  log  wharf.  They 
trooped  up  to  the  fur  warehouse,  and  the 
sound  of  a  fiddle  and  tlic  thump  of  soft-shod 
feet  were  soon  heard  ;  for  the  French  were 
ready  to  celebrate  any  occasion  with  dan- 
cing. Laughter  and  the  high  excited  voices 
of  women  also  came  from  the  little  ball-room, 
which  was  only  the  office  of  the  Fur  Com- 
pany. 

Here  the  engages  felt  at  home.  The  fid- 
dler sat  on  the  to])  of  the  desk,  and  men 
lounging  on  a  row  of  benches  around  the 
walls  sprang  to  their  feet  and  began  to  caper 
at  the  violin's  first  invitation.  Such  maids 
and  wives  as  were  nearest  the  building  were 
haled  in,  laughing,  by  their  relations ;  and 
in  the  absence  of  the  agents,  and  of  that 
awe  which  goes  with  making  your  cross- 
mark  on  a  paper,  a  quick  carnival  was 
held   on   the   spot  where   so   many   solemn 


2()0  PONTIACS  LOOKOUT. 

contnicts  Iiad  l)con  signed.  An  odor  of  furs 
OP  mo  from  tlio  i){icking-r()oms  around,  mixed 
with  gums  and  inconHC-like  whiffs.  Ad(h'd 
to  this  was  the  breath  of  the  general  store 
kept  by  the  ageney.  Tobaceo  and  snuff, 
rum,  ehocohite,  calieo,  bhmkets,  wood  and 
iron  utensils,  fire-arms,  West  India  snuar 
and  riee,  —  all  sifted  their  invisible  essences 
on  the  air.  Unceiled  joists  showed  heavy 
and  brown  overhead.  But  tliero  was  no 
fireplace,  for  when  the  straits  stood  locked 
in  ice  and  the  island  was  deep  in  snow,  no 
engagd  claimed  admission  here.  lie  would 
be  a  thousand  miles  away,  toiling  on  snow- 
shoes  with  his  pack  of  furs  through  the  trees, 
or  bargaining  with  trappers  for  his  contribu- 
tion to  this  month  of  enormous  traffic. 

Clean  buckskin  legs  and  brand-new  belted 
hunting-shirts  whirled  on  the  floor,  bright- 
ened by  sashes  of  crimson  or  kerchiefs  of 
orange.  Indians  from  the  reservation  on 
Round  Island,  who  happened  to  be  standing, 
like  statues,  in  front  of  the  building,  turned 
and  looked  with  lenient  eye  on  the  perform- 


rONTTAC'S  LOOKOUT.  20 1 

ance  of  tliclr  Fivneli  hrothors.  The  fuldlcr 
was  a  nervous  little  Frenclimaii  with  eyes 
like  a  weasel,  and  lie  (]ete(»tefl  Jenievo 
Lalotte  piittini;'  her  head  into  the  room. 
Sho  glanced  from  figure  to  figure  of  the 
dancers,  searching  through  the  twilight  for 
what  she  eould  not  find  ;  hut  hefore  he  could 
call  hen*  sho  was  oft'.  None  of  the  nu'n,  ex- 
cept a  f(!W  Scotch-French,  were  very  tall,  hut 
they  were  a  handsome,  mus(^ular  race,  Hereto 
in  enjoyment,  yet  with  a  languor  which  pro- 
longed it,  and  gave  grace  to  every  pictur- 
esque pose.  Not  one  of  them  wanted  to 
pain  Lalotte's  girl,  hut,  as  they  danced,  a 
joyful  fellow  would  here  and  there  spring 
high  ahove  the  floor  and  shout,  "  Good  voy- 
age to  Michel  P(nisonneau  and  his  new 
family  !  "  They  had  forgotten  the  one  who 
amused  them  yesterday,  and  remembered 
only  the  one  who  amused  them  to-day. 

Jenieve  struck  on  Jean  Bati'  McClure's 
door,  and  faced  his  wife,  speechless,  pointing 
to  the  schooner  ploughing  southward. 

"  Yes,  she 's  gone,"  said  Jean  Bati'  Mc- 
Clure's wife,  "  and  the  boys  with  her." 


2i)2  roNTrACs  lookout. 

The  confKlanto  came  out  on  tlie  Htep,  and 
trit'd  to  lay  lior  hand  on  Joniovo'H  Hhonldcr, 
])ut  the  girl  moved  backward  from  her. 

"Now  lot  me  tell  you,  it  is  a  good  tiling 
for  you,  fJenieve  Lalotto.  You  ran  make  a 
fine  match  of  your  own  to-morrow.  It  is 
not  natural  for  a  girl  to  live  as  you  have 
lived.     You  are  better  oil'  without  them." 

"  But  my  mother  has  left  mo  I  " 

"  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  you ;  but  you  were 
hard  on  her." 

"  I  blame  you,  madame  !  " 

"You  might  as  well  blame  the  priest, 
who  thought  it  best  not  to  let  them  go  un- 
married. And  she  has  taken  a  much  worse 
man  than  Michel  Pensonneau  in  her  time." 

"  My  mother  and  my  brothers  have  left 
me  here  alone,"  repeated  Jenieve ;  and  she 
wrung  her  hands  and  put  them  over  her 
face.  The  trouble  was  so  overwhelming 
that  it  broke  her  down  before  her  enemy. 

"Oh,  don't  take  it  to  heart,"  said  Jean 
Bati'  McClure's  wife,  with  ready  interest  in 
the  person  nearest  at  hand.     "  Come  and 


PONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT.  2(5:5 

eat  supper  with  my  man  aiul  mo  to-night, 
and  sleep  in  our  house  if  you  are  afraid.'* 

Jenievo  leaned  her  forehead  against  the 
hut,  and  made  no  reply  to  these  neighborly 
overtures. 

"  Did  she  say  nothing  at  all  about  me, 
madame  ?  '* 

"  Yes ;  she  was  afraid  you  would  eonu;  at 
the  last  minute  and  take  her  by  the  arm  and 
walk  her  home.  You  were  too  strict  with 
her,  and  that  is  the  truth.  She  was  glad  to 
get  away  to  Cahokia.  They  say  it  is  fine 
in  the  Illinois  Territory.  You  know  slie  is 
fond  of  seeing  the  world." 

The  young  supple  creature  trying  io  re- 
strain her  shivers  and  sobs  of  anguish 
against  the  bark  house  side  was  really  a 
moving  sight ;  and  Jean  Bati'  McClure's 
wife,  flattening  a  masculine  upper  lip  with 
resolution,  said  promptly,  — 

"  I  am  going  this  moment  to  the  Fur 
Company's  quarters  to  send  young  Mon- 
sieur Crooks  after  you." 

At  that  Jenieve  fled  along  the  beach  and 


2G4  rONTIAC'S  LOOKOUT. 

took  to  the  bushes.  As  she  ran,  weeping 
aloud  Hke  a  child,  she  watched  the  lessening 
schooner ;  and  it  seemed  a  monstrous  thing, 
out  of  nature,  that  her  mother  was  on  that 
little  ship,  fleeing  from  her,  with  a  thought- 
less face  set  smiling  towards  a  new  world. 
She  climbed  on,  to  keep  the  schooner  in 
sight,  and  made  for  Pontiac's  Lookout, 
reckless  of  what  she  had  seen  there. 

The  distant  canvas  became  one  leaning 
sail,  and  then  a  speck,  and  then  nothing. 
There  was  an  afterglow  on  the  water  which 
turned  it  to  a  wavering  pavement  of  yellow- 
pink  sheen.  In  that  clear,  high  atmosphere, 
mainland  shores  and  islands  seemed  to 
throw  out  the  evening  purples  from  them- 
selves, and  thus  to  slowly  reach  for  one 
another  and  form  darkness.  Jenieve  had 
lain  on  the  grass,  crying,  "  O  Mama  — 
Fran9ois  —  Toussaint  —  Gabriel !  "  But 
she  sat  up  at  last,  with  her  dejected  head 
on  her  breast,  submitting  to  the  pettiness 
and  treachery  of  what  she  loved.  Bats  flew 
across  the  open  place.     A  sudden  rankness 


PON TI AC'S  LOOKOUT.  2G5 

of  sweetln'ier,  taking  her  breath  away  by  its 
icy  puff,  reminded  her  of  other  things,  and 
she  tried  to  get  up  and  run.  Instead  of 
running  she  seemed  to  move  sidewise  out  of 
herself,  and  saw  Pontiac  standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  cliff.  His  head  turned  from 
St.  Ignace  to  the  reviving  fires  on  Hound 
Island,  and  slowly  back  again  from  Round 
Island  to  St.  Ignace.  Jenieve  felt  as  if  she 
were  choking,  but  again  she  asked  out  of 
her  heart  to  his,  — 

"Monsieur  the  chief  Pontiac,  what  ails 
the  French  and  Indians?  " 

He  floated  around  to  face  her,  the  high 
ridges  of  his  bleached  features  catching 
light ;  but  this  time  he  showed  only  dim 
dead  eyes.  His  head  sunk  on  his  breast, 
and  Jenieve  could  see  the  fronds  of  the 
feathers  he  wore  traced  indistinctly  against 
the  sky.  The  dead  eyes  searched  for  her 
and  could  not  see  her ;  he  whispered 
hoarsely  to  himself,  "  Malatat !  " 

The  voice  of  the  living  world  calling  her 
name  sounded    directly   afterwards    in  the 


26(3  PON Tl AC'S  LOOKOUT. 

woods,  and  Jenieve  leaped  as  if  she  were 
shot.  She  had  the  instinct  that  her  lover 
must  not  see  this  thing,  for  there  were  rea- 
sons of  race  and  religion  against  it.  But 
she  need  not  have  feared  that  Pontiac  would 
show  himself,  or  his  long  and  savage  mourn- 
ing for  the  destruction  of  the  red  man,  to 
any  descendant  of  the  English.  As  the 
bushes  closed  behind  her  she  looked  back : 
the  phosphoric  blur  was  already  so  far  in 
the  west  that  she  could  hardly  be  sure  she 
saw  it  again.  And  the  young  agent  of  the 
Fur  Company,  breaking  his  way  among 
leaves,  met  her  with  both  hands ;  saying 
gayly,  to  save  her  the  shock  of  talking 
about  her  mother  :  — 

"  Come  home,  come  home,  my  sweetbrier 
maid.  No  wonder  you  smell  of  sweetbrier. 
I  am  rank  with  it  myself,  rubbing  against 
the  dewy  bushes.'* 


